


When I Grow Up

by Weasleychick32



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Architect Dean, Ballet Dancer Castiel (Supernatural), Bullying, Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, Castiel (Supernatural)-centric, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Castiel, Slow Burn, Talent Shows, Teacher Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weasleychick32/pseuds/Weasleychick32
Summary: What do you want to be when you grow up? An astronaut? A scientist? A hula-hooping rodeo clown who drives the ice cream truck on Sundays?At age seven, Castiel already has his future decided, now it’s simply a matter of making it happen. Life gets in the way in the form of hospital visits, a stolen favorite pencil, school yard bullies, a gym-eteria talent show, and a spur of the moment road trip, but he refuses to settle. With a little help from family, unexpected friends, a kind stranger, and a freckle-faced boy with a love of giraffes and architecture, he can do anything.Told in seven-year increments from age seven to thirty-five.





	1. Age Seven

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the CastielBigBang. I'd like to thank my amazing beta Rosie-Berber (to whom I owe many things) on tumblr for her help and her enthusiasm and for turning me into a fluffy pile of mush with all of her kind words and to kuwlshadow (on tumblr, livejournal, and ao3) for stepping in at the last minute with her fantastic artwork! Go check her out!!

[](http://i.imgur.com/MFJHkTX)

“And what are you going to be when you grow up, sweetheart?”

“A fireman! Wait no— I wanna make skyscrapers!” a small voice says, air whistling through the gap where his two front teeth used to be.

Castiel glances up briefly at the wiggling freckle-faced boy then goes back to his coloring. His purple crayon is no longer as pointy as it was when he began and it’s becoming more difficult to stay within the lines.

“And you, Castiel?”

He doesn’t look up as he has no interest in Mrs. Davis’s placating smile or watching it sour into a perplexed frown as it’s wont to do in his presence, but he answers earnestly, as always.

“I’m going to be a teacher and teach first grade during the day and dance class at night and during summer vacation I’m gonna train the sea lions at the zoo.”

Castiel frowns at his fire hydrant. There are still white spaces and he went out of the lines a few times. He’s never been a good colorer, but last year Ms. Holliker had to help them color a lot for their take-home crafts so he knows he needs to keep practicing if he’s ever going to be as good a first grade teacher as she is.

“Are you really gonna do all that stuff?”

Castiel looks up and meets the green eyes of the freckled boy who’s now standing directly beside him at the end of the long cafeteria table watching him curiously. Mrs. Davis is way across the room helping Josie with her card for her sister’s birthday. It’s raining (again) so they get extra craft time instead of recess. Castiel is relieved. He’d much rather work on improving his coloring skills than play dodgeball in the loud echoey gym… again. That’s the problem with living in Florida, his mom says. It’s either raining or sweltering.

“Yeah,” he answers hesitantly. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been made fun of for his plans, but this kid seems nice enough.

“Cool,” the other boy says with wide green eyes. “Why sea lions?”

“They swim good.” There’s an awkward pause as the boy watches Castiel expectantly, but whatever he’s waiting for never comes and he must realize that it’s not going to because he continues.

“…Right. Well, giraffes are cooler, but I guess the sea lions are alright.” He shrugs. “But you know boys don’t dance, right?”

Castiel squints at him. “Of course we do. Haven’t you seen _Swan Lake_ or _The Nutcracker_?”

Freckles frowns. “No. What are those?”

Castiel’s not sure how to answer that so he copies what his mom always says.

“They’re _classics_.”

“Oh!” Freckles lights up with understanding and with it returns his enthusiasm. “Like Pink Floyd!”

Castiel’s frown intensifies and he tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know what that is. Is it a classic?”

“My dad says it is.”

“Then I guess _Swan Lake_ is like Pink Floyd.”

“Awesome!” Freckles grins, showing off the gap in his teeth. “Could you teach me how to dance?”

“I don’t really know how yet; I’m still learning. But when I get my dance studio I can teach you if you take my class.”

“What’s a dance studio?”

Castiel blinks. All the questions are starting to get frustrating. All he wants to do is finish his drawing, but he figures he should get used to it if he’s going to be teaching kids this age for the rest of his life.

“It’s a building where you get taught how to dance.”

“A building!” the boy exclaims. “Hey, I can make you your dance studio!”

“It’s not gonna be a skyscraper,” Castiel says shortly, remembering the boy’s answer from before. The boy rolls his eyes and Castiel finds himself feeling offended.

“Well I can’t make _just_ skyscrapers. I gotta make lots of different stuff so people know I’m good at it, don’t I?”

That makes sense, Castiel supposes, but he doesn’t want his studio to be the first thing the kid builds. What if he’s not good at it yet and ruins it? Like Castiel with his coloring, some things take lots of practice before you get good at them and it’d be no good for Castiel to have a ruined studio before he even gets to teach his first class.

The boy must see the skepticism on his face because he tightens his jaw and gets a defiant gleam in his eye. “Gimme your drawing and a pencil and I’ll show you,” he demands.

Castiel hesitates, considering telling the kid ‘no’ on principle. He doesn’t even know him and here he is bossing him around. But he’s curious too, and it’s the curiosity that has him handing over his fire hydrant picture and his favorite pencil that he got from the zoo over summer break. It has sea lions and penguins on it.

“Scoot over.”

The boy starts to climb onto the bench, forcing Castiel to move over lest he be sat on. Then the boy settles and flips Castiel’s picture to the blank back side and starts to draw. His lines are much neater than Castiel’s and he doesn’t have to stop and erase as much either. As Castiel watches, a building begins to form and take shape under the boy’s hands.

With an excited flip in his belly Castiel starts giving the boy instructions. It’s going to be made of brick. There’s only one small window in the front cuz otherwise the dancers might get self-conscious. There hasta be two levels because Castiel’s gotta have a place to live and he’ll probably be tired after teaching all day and not want to leave so it might as well be there. Yes, the top floor needs windows because otherwise he would miss the sun. And could he have a shelf thing on the windows so he can have some flowers there? Yes, just like that. Perfect.

[](http://i.imgur.com/JSINXOF)

They become so engrossed in their project that neither notice Mrs. Davis calling an end to recess and ushering kids off to their classrooms.

“Dean, Castiel, don’t make me tell you again. Recess is over.”

The boys blink up at the surly woman and only then does Castiel notice they’re the only ones left in the cafeteria.

“But—,”

“No buts. It’s time to go back to class.”

Castiel frowns sadly at the unfinished studio, but gathers his crayons and his pencil box and does as he’s told.

“Don’t worry,” the boy, Dean, whispers. “I’ll finish it at my place and bring it back tomorrow. I’ll find you at lunch, okay?”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, good mood returned with the simple promise. They whisper last minute specifications and suggestions all the way to the second grade hallway where they’re forced apart, Dean on the left in Mr. Covey’s class and Castiel to the right with Mrs. Jones.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, “Castiel agrees.

Not five minutes later Castiel realizes Dean never gave him back his favorite pencil.

.

~*~

.

“Hey! Hey you! Sea lion kid!”

Castiel turns away from his burrito with a frown, but then he catches sight of the boy from yesterday hustling across the room waving a red folder and his frown eases into a small smile. He’d almost forgotten about his drawing from the day before; he’d had a busy evening spent at dance class and then at home practicing what he’d learned until he fell asleep.

The boy, _Dean_ he’s pretty sure, wedges himself onto the bench beside Castiel, forcing Ralphie to scoot over, which Castiel doesn’t mind. The older boy had been eyeing his bread roll and Castiel likes the bread here.

“Did you finish it?” Castiel asks, the forgotten excitement from yesterday bleeding into his tone.

Dean smirks and slaps down the folder. “It’s awesome.” He flips it open and there’s Castiel’s dance studio.

“Wow,” Castiel breathes. He gingerly removes the carefully flat page and his jaw drops as he notices several more behind it detailing an intricately drawn interior layout that includes two dance rooms, a lobby, and an office.

“ _Dean we gotta go!_ ”

“Crap.” Dean’s voice draws Castiel out of his head, filled with fantasies of twirling tight clad legs and graceful leaps.

“What?”

“I gotta go,” Dean says, screwing his face up into an ugly expression of distaste. “We’re moving again, but I convinced dad to wait until after lunch since I worked so hard on that. I had to use the computer at the library to figure out what the inside’s supposed to look like. I hope it’s alright.”

“It’s perfect,” Castiel blurts, running reverent fingers over the waxy colored lines. His excitement dims when the rest of the boy’s words register and his voice drops to a low disappointed tone. “What do you mean you’re moving? Do you have to change schools?”

Dean shrugs and his smile falls away along with his eye contact. “Yeah. Dad’s thinking Virginia. Who knows, maybe this time we’ll stay.”

Even Castiel can see Dean doesn’t believe it.

“Maybe Virginia won’t be so rainy and you can have more outside recess.”

“If it wasn’t for inside recess we wouldn’t have met,” Dean points out.

“True,” Castiel agrees, looking down at his dance studio. His heart fills and overflows with warmth and happiness. “I love it. I’ve decided you can build it for me when I get money.”

Dean scoffs. “I don’t wanna _build_ ‘em. I wanna _make_ ‘em, just like I did yours. But when I’m grown up I can do a real blueprint like what my dad looks at when he does the building. He says the mook behind the desk who draws the blueprint gets to decide how it’s gonna look and everybody just does what he says and hopes nothing falls down.”

“Oh.” Castiel knows the word for that, he does. It’s ark… Arti… Arky…

“Dean!”

“Anyway, I gotta go.” Dean clambers out of the bench, narrowly avoiding knocking over Castiel’s chocolate milk.

“Oh okay. Good luck with your drawing.”

“Thanks!” Dean flashes a grin that Castiel can only blink in response to and then he’s jogging across the cafeteria. Castiel twists around in his seat and watches him reach the door where an impossibly small brown-haired boy is waiting with his arms crossed and his bottom lip stuck out. Dean ruffles the boy’s hair, tugging a reluctant smile from the kid as they both turn and head for the exit.

With a start, Castiel realizes that he’s probably never going to see Dean again. This is his one and only chance.

“Hey! HEY DEAN! _You still have my pencil!_ ”

Dean doesn’t hear him and a moment later he and the small boy disappear through the doorway and out of sight. Gone.

With a heavy sigh, Castiel turns back to the table. His roll is gone and beside him Ralphie’s cheeks are bulging. Castiel shoots him a glare, but says nothing and goes back to what’s left of his lunch. His eye catches on the “blueprints” of his future dance studio and a smile curls his lips. It’s a fair trade, he decides: his favorite pencil for a visualization of his future. In fact, Castiel thinks as he runs his index finger over the painstakingly printed DW in the bottom right corner, he might have gotten the better end of the deal. The eraser was almost all the way worn off anyway.

He carefully tucks the drawings back into the folder and tucks it under his thigh to keep it safe and clean in the volatile elementary school cafeteria. He can’t wait to show his mom and dad.


	2. Age Fourteen

The metallic clang reverberates down the hallway, intermingled with the booming guffaws of Zach Smith and cronies as Castiel bounces off the locker. He keeps his head down and tries to regain his footing while ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder and the hot burst of shame clogging his throat. If he can get through to the science corridor then—

A meaty hand slams down on his books, scattering them across the deserted hall. Zach’s booming laugh rings the loudest of all as his two thug-ish friends close ranks to flank him, one kicking Castiel’s geometry book farther away as he does. Castiel’s done for. He knows there’s no point in trying to get away now, that’d only make things worse. Instead, he tips his chin up and coolly stares Zach in the eye, daring him to do his worst.

Zach’s grin widens and he leans in until Castiel can feel his breath ghost across his upper lip.

“You’re always so fun to break, Castiel. My very own pretty little ballerina boy.”

Castiel doesn’t see the first punch land as he refuses to flinch from Zach’s leering face, but he definitely feels it when a fist solidly collides with his ribs and he feels every hit after.

.

~*~

.

“You know what I don’t get?”

Castiel sighs lightly and adjusts his ice pack without looking up to where Meg is leaning her shoulder into his doorframe, twirling a Tootsie Pop between her lips.

“I’m sure I could compile a list given enough time,” he says.

Meg grins, shark-like and points at him with the purple sucker. “ _ That _ . That is what I don’t get.”

“Most understand it as sarcasm—,”

“Shush,” Meg interrupts. “We can engage in acerbic witty banter later. Right now, I’m talking.”

“Been reading Faulkner again I see,” Castiel mutters. Meg ignores him, per the norm. He’s not sure why she’s his friend, assuming of course that they are friends. He’s never been certain of his standing with Meg. He’s pretty sure that’s the way she likes it.

“You’re blunt and assertive and you don’t take crap from anybody,” Meg continues. “So why do you always let Zach, Tweedle Dum, and Tweedle Dummer beat the shit out of you?”

“I don’t  _ let _ them,” Castiel argues, turning to glare at Meg. He moves wrong as he does and a spasm of pain lances all down his left side.

“You don’t fight back. Ever.”

“It’s three on one,” Castiel refutes. “It’d be stupid to drag it out longer and make them try harder.”

“You could take ‘em,” Meg says, eyes bright with conviction. Castiel scoffs and adjusts the bandages covering his nose. “I’ve danced with you practically every day for the past five years. You’re strong, coordinated, and  _ fast _ . You could kick their asses all the way to Mars and back before they even cotton on to what’s happening.”

“That’s all very flattering,” Castiel says with an eye roll, “but you’re forgetting that I’ve never been in a fight in my life. I wouldn’t—”

“Never been in a—,” Meg throws her hands up and straightens up from her lean to step fully into his bedroom. “Fuck, you’ve been in more fights than I have and I  _ start  _ fights! The only difference is you don’t fight back!”

“I’m not you, Meg.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Castiel tips his head back to stare at the ceiling rather than look at Meg any longer. A low growl rumbles in her throat and she pitches the remains of her sucker in the trash can beside Castiel’s desk.

“Alright, I’m done. Get up. We’re going out back.”

“I am in  _ pain _ . I don’t want to get up and I don’t want any part in what you’re planning.”

“Too damn bad. If you don’t get up, we’ll start right here.”

The ‘ _ don’t test me’  _ is implied. He gives in. He knows Meg well enough by now to take her at her word.

In the backyard for the next hour she kicks his ass and then makes plans to continue the ass kicking three days a week until she deems him less pathetic. When she finally leaves, he wants nothing more than to collapse on his bed and play dead for several days. So of course, his dad stops him at the base of the stairs before he can make it to his room and the relative safety it offers.

“I saw you and Meg outside.” Castiel freezes, left foot on the bottommost stair and scrunches his face in frustration. “She’s teaching you how to fight?”

Castiel sighs, caught. “Yeah,” he admits. He removes his foot from the stair and turns to face his father. He has already caught up to him in height. They stand eye to eye as his dad takes in Castiel’s bandaged nose, split lip, and the careful way he’s holding his body and nods.

“Good.”

“Good,” Castiel echoes flatly.

“Yeah.” Dad stuffs his hands in his pockets talks up to the top of the staircase rather than look Castiel in the eye. “You’ll be better at holding your own than I ever was. I almost feel bad for those boys.”

The look on his face conveys a very different feeling and not for the first time Castiel imagines that if his dad had a little more height and a lot more muscle he could be a real force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, his small stature, gentle disposition, and proclivity for having his nose in a book made him ripe pickings for schoolyard bullies way back when.

Sort of how Castiel being a “ _ dancing fag _ ” does it for him.

“How’s dance been coming along? Did you and Meg manage that lift yet?” his dad asks. The attempt to lighten the mood backfires. Castiel kicks at the stair behind him and regrets it immediately as pain flares up his side again.

“No.”

“You’ll get it soon enough,” his dad assures him with a soft smile. A light scoff escapes Castiel and he avoids his dad’s knowing gaze. It’s not only the lift that’s bothering him. It’s everything. Nothing is going how it’s supposed to and he can’t help but feel it’s because of him, because he’s not good enough, not determined enough, not… enough. There’s a pit of despair welling in his chest, hell-bent on convincing him that he’s doomed for failure for his whole life.

He can’t make friends because he’s a bully magnet. He’s bullied for being a male ballerina, but he can’t even do that right. They’ve been working on the same lift for weeks now and he can’t do it. He keeps trying but he  _ can’t _ —

And he got a C on his latest Geometry test so it looks like he’s well on his way to fucking up his future teaching career too. Usually his mom helps him with that stuff, but she’s been sick a lot lately and asking for help while she’s got bigger concerns seems unfair. This is her third  time in the hospital this year and the doctors still don’t know what’s wrong. He was supposed to visit her after school today, but he can’t. Not when he looks like  _ this _ .

“I want to show you something,” his dad says, drawing him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I’ve been saving it for a day like today for a long while now, but I think it’s time.”

“Does it have to be now?” Castiel asks, picking at the bandage over his nose. His dad quietly observes him for a long moment and then nods.

“Yep. C’mon.” He dodges around Castiel and leads the way up the stairs.

Castiel sighs and follows slowly and painfully after him. He’s winded when he gets to the top, but soldiers on after his dad, past his room down to the end of the hall and left into his dad’s office. It’s a warm room, both physically and aesthetically— dark wood and full of warm browns, yellows, and here and there a splash of orange. Castiel has always loved it in here.

His dad goes straight to the smallest of three packed bookshelves and shuffles around until he comes up with a beat up red folder. He holds it out to Castiel without a word and Castiel tentatively accepts the offering.

“For me?”

His dad shrugs. “Technically it was always yours. I just held onto it for you, but I think it’s time I returned to its rightful owner. Go on. Take a look.”

Castiel flips open the folder and his jaw drops. Familiar pencil lines overlaid with crayon trigger a forgotten memory: a freckle faced boy with bright green eyes who wanted to be... what was it? He wanted to  _ make _ buildings, to draw them. He wanted to be an architect and Castiel was in need of a dance studio. One night and a favorite pencil later, Castiel has his very own blueprint for a dance studio entirely unique to him.

He remembers how perfect he’d thought it was back then. He’d thought the boy must have been something magical to be able to pluck a picture out of Castiel’s head and turn it into a picture on a piece of paper. Now, with age and perspective, he can see the childish quality of the drawing. A few of the lines wobble and slant, the dimensions are utterly impossible, and who ever heard of a pink ficus?

Despite it all, it’s still perfect; it’s still something to be treasured.

“Thanks dad,” he says. His voice cracks.

“Castiel.” He looks up to meet his dad’s earnest gaze. “You will get the lift,” he says with a nod towards the folder. Castiel nods back.

“Yeah. Yeah, we will.”


	3. Age Twenty-One

“You’re such a stick in the mud, Clarence.”

“That’s me,” Castiel mutters without looking up from his textbook. “Neighborhood stick in the mud. Community wet blanket. Local buzzkill.”

“You spend way too much time alone,” Meg informs him. “Which is why this would be good for both of us.”

“It’s a frat party. In what universe is that good for anyone?”

“Not all parties are frat parties.”

“They are when they’re on a college campus.”

“Technically it’s off campus, but  _ the point is _ , I need you there,” Meg admits, like the words had to be wrenched from behind her lips with pliers. Castiel looks up, eyebrows raised. It’s not like Meg to confess to needing anybody for anything, let alone something like a frat party escort.

“Tough,” he says.

Meg scoffs and lays back on his bed to complain to the ceiling. “You are such a dick. I thought we were friends.”

“You did? We are?”

“Kinda?” Meg says with a sour expression like the admission left a bad taste in her mouth. “I don’t know, but who else will enable me to show off my best assets?” Castiel glances at her with reluctant curiosity. “My dizzying intellect and biting sarcasm!”

Castiel snorts and goes back to his textbook. “I don’t think anyone who frequents frat parties is equipped to handle your particular brand of venom.”

“One:  _ it’s not a frat party _ . Two: maybe some other poor sap got dragged along by their  _ only friend _ and is desperate for intelligent conversation.”

“You’re not my only friend.”

“Your nerdy online pen pal doesn’t count.”

Castiel levels her with a flat look. “You say nerdy, I say producer of  _ intelligent conversation _ .”

Meg crosses her arms and glares. “Are you coming or not?”

He sighs. “Yes, I’ll come.”

“Try not to dress like an accountant,” she snaps and hops off his bed and exits his room in a whirl of dark curls.

Castiel rubs his temple. He’s going to regret this.

.

~*~

.

“I regret this.”

“We haven’t even gone inside,” Meg exasperates.

She showed up at his apartment at 7:30 sharp and hasn’t quit badgering him since.

“Not that shirt.”

“Those pants are awful.”

“Why did you comb your hair?”

“Do you own  _ anything _ besides  _ loafers _ ?”

Now they’re standing outside an old two story house that, while it’s technically not a fraternity, is close enough as far as he’s concerned. The sidewalk pulsates beneath his loafers (because while he does own shoes that aren’t loafers, the only other options are his manky old running shoes or his ballet slippers) and already the crush of bodies has spilled out over the front yard, a red solo cup in every hand despite the early hour.

“Apparently, we don’t need to,” Castiel grumbles, frowning deeply at a short, mousy haired boy who dared to smile at him.

“Wow, you were right  _ Resident Party Pooper _ ,” Meg says as she continues to steer him towards the house by the crook of his arm.

“The world is a butterfly and it is my duty to stomp on it,” he agrees gravely as they climb the porch. There’s a snort off to his right and he thinks for a wild moment that Meg actually laughed, but then he sees a cluster of people gathered in a haphazard circle on the porch. He makes eye contact with a grinning redhead slumped in the porch swing and doesn’t scowl soon enough. She waves them over.

“Hey, I’m Charlie. Wanna sit?” She almost has to shout to be heard over the music.

Meg shoves him her way and he barely catches himself to avoid faceplanting at the redhead’s- Charlie’s- feet. He turns to glare at Meg, but she’s already walking away.

“I’m getting a drink!” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing into the house.

“That your girlfriend?” Charlie asks, not turning to face Castiel until Meg’s sashaying backsides is fully out of view.

“She’s not my type.”

“Ha!” Charlie spins around making the swing sway and points a gloating finger in the face of a tall boy with longish brown hair. The boy swats at her hand and rolls his eyes. “I told you so!” she says too loudly and turns back to Castiel. “Well, she is aallll kinds of my type. She into girls?”

“Meg doesn’t distinguish the gender of her prey.”

Charlie squints at him, eyes over bright and cheeks flushed. “This is your way of warning me off, isn’t it?”

Castiel looks her dead in the eye and says in his lowest, most serious tone, “Run”.

Charlie blinks and then breaks into another grin. “I like you. You should stay with us.”

Castiel is unconvinced, but Charlie pats the bench beside her and after only a moment’s hesitation, he sits. Charlie grins like the cat that got the cream and uses her feet to send the swing into motion. Castiel doesn’t pick up his own fast enough they rock wildly as his loafers skim the porch, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Do you always let your not-girlfriend push you around?” asks the third member of their group, a much shorter brown haired boy with red rimmed eyes and a loose grin.

“No.” Castiel doesn’t elaborate. The boy’s grin falters and he looks away.

An awkward silence falls while the music continues to blare from the house behind them and the bench swing pitches crazily as Charlie pushes them and Castiel does nothing to help.

“So uh, what’s your name?” The long-haired boy asks after a long minute.

“Castiel.”

His eyes bug. “Cas?!”

Castiel plants his feet, bringing the swing to a careening halt. Charlie lurches forward, but Castiel throws out an arm to catch her before she can finish her fall. “Woah,” she mumbles, looking a little green.

Castiel ignores her and squints at the boy more closely. “Do I know you?” he asks when the boy becomes no more familiar. He’s far enough outside of the light from the porch light that his features are difficult to make out, but from what Castiel can see he looks far too young to be at a frat party or college at all, truth be told. His height helps to disguise his youth, but the illusion doesn’t hold up under more intent scrutiny.

“I’m Sam,” he says, gesturing to his chest. “Or, uh, you probably know me better as Moose?”

“Moose?” Castiel echoes. No, he’s fairly certain he’s never associated with anyone who goes by the name  _ Moose _ .

“Online? It’s my username only it’s written in leek so it’s spelled M-0-0-5-3.”

Suddenly everything clicks.

“Moo fifty-three!” he exclaims. Or rather,  _ Moose _ , he supposes, not that it makes any more sense than Moo53 ever did. Charlie and the other boy burst into peals of laughter. He’s always wondered how he came to choose that username. He assumed that he must live on a cattle ranch or dairy farm or something. Meg always calls him—

“Cowboy!”

Meg has a cup in each hand as she wedges herself between Castiel and Charlie, forcing them to press to the edges of the seat to make room.

“Or girl,” Castiel corrects out of habit. He accepts the cup she offers him only to dump its contents into the potted plant on his right before returning the empty cup.

“That was mine!” Meg says.

“And I’m definitely a guy,” Sam adds.

“Oops,” Castiel deadpans before turning to Sam. “My apologies. Sam is a rather ambiguous name and I haven’t been sure. Until now, of course.”

Sam’s lips curl into a smile. “And ‘ _ Castiel’ _ is better?”

“Touché.”

“You disgust me,” Meg says. “Both of you.”

“But not me, right?” the other boy chimes in with a slow smile. Meg hardly glances his way.

“You most of all.” She turns to Charlie and smiles, a terrifying predatory thing. “You, on the other hand… I’m Meg.”

Charlie swallows audibly and stares up at Sam with wide pleading eyes. He startles.

“Uhhh Charlie, didn’t you want to recruit Cas for your VD group?”

“Excuse me?” Castiel blurts. He only just met Charlie and he’s not at all comfortable joining a Venereal Disease group. Charlie lights up, discomfort forgotten as she leans around Meg to better see Castiel, much to Meg’s displeasure.

“You’re Lang Dansewer?” Charlie bursts, completely butchering the pronunciation.

“L’ange Danseur,” Castiel corrects with a lilt. “It’s french.”

“I  _ told _ you,” Sam throws back. “Are you really a male ballerina?” he asks, eyes bright and curious without an ounce of judgement. Castiel stares.

“Uhh sorry,” Sam backtracks. “I took French in high school.”

“That’s alright,” Castiel says. “Yes, I dance.”

Meg snorts and he shoots her a dirty look.

“He says it like it’s a hobby, but look him up. He’s the top danseur in the state.”

“Wow,” Charlie breathes.

Meg smirks. “I’m not far from the top of the  _ country _ myself. If you want I could give you a demonstration.”

Charlie goes pink.

“That’s amazing!” Sam exclaims, practically vibrating on his perch. “Would you— Sorry this is gonna come across weird, but would you talk to Dean?”

“Who?”

“My brother? Dean?”

Ah yes. Castiel knows of Sam’s annoying older brother who always plays his music too loud and calls Sam names and who went away to college two years ago, and Sam has missed dearly ever since.

“He used to be really into dance when he was little, but our dad was a real asshole about it, especially when Dean compared it to Pink Floyd—,”

“Who?”

“Not important,” Sam waves away the question while the other brown-haired boy looks incredulous. “The point is, it’d be really good for him to meet a real, actual ballerina who’s a  _ guy _ , you know? To show him it’s okay, I guess? Dad screwed him up on a lot of things and I just… It would help him figure some things out, I think.”

“I don’t know.” Castiel is a fish out of water. What would he say? What if he makes it worse? He’s not very good at socializing to begin with and the idea that he could erase years of toxic parenting is laughable to put it mildly. But Sam’s eyes are wide and pleading and so earnest he finds himself asking, “Where is he?”

Sam jumps to his feet. “Inside playing host. This was actually supposed to be a party for me for getting accepted into college early, but people kept showing up and it got a little out of control and now he’s all paranoid.” Sam grins widely and leans closer. “Someone actually brought a keg!” he divulges, eyes bright at this astounding phenomenon. Meg and Castiel trade glances, Castiel thinking Sam’s innocence delightful and something to be valued and cherished while Meg is nearly gleeful at the idea of wrecking it. Castiel shoots her a sharp warning look and makes a mental note to keep her away from Sam for their final year.

“Anyway,” Sam continues unawares, “wait here!” He rushes off and in the corner of the porch the other boy snorts.

“Well I always knew Dean was into dick, but I never knew he was such a fag, you know?”

Castiel stiffens, but feels validation in the fact that both Meg and Charlie are glaring daggers at him.

“How many of those did you have to smoke to forget that you’re a ‘ _ fag’ _ too, Aaron,” Charlie snaps.

Castiel goes cold. “Are you  _ high _ ?”

Aaron giggles and digs a rolled but unlit blunt from his pocket. “As a fuckin’ kite, man. You want a hit?”

Castiel stands abruptly, sending the swing rocking wildly until it knocks into the back of his knees. “I have to go.”

“Oh c’mon, Clarence!” Meg exclaims getting to her feet as well. “It’s just weed.”

“If I’m going to be a teacher—,”

“Here we go.” Meg rolls her eyes.

“—I can’t have a  _ drug conviction _ on my record. I’m leaving.”

“You could still get hired,” Meg argues.

“I won’t take the risk.”

Castiel doesn’t have a problem with marijuana. It was the only thing that kept his mother sane in the final months before the cancer finished its warpath and took her, but the fact remains that it’s illegal and he can’t take the chance of getting caught anywhere near it. Meg’s right, he could still get hired with a possession charge, but he doesn’t need the added struggle of convincing employers and coworkers of his worthiness for the position. It’ll be difficult enough as a young “gay” man trying to work with small children and he won’t risk his future.

“Wait!” Charlie stumbles to her feet and would have fallen if Meg wasn’t there to catch her. “I was serious about you join my VD group.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Castiel says, letting his exasperation bleed into the words.

“Virtual Dungeons and Dragons, VD for short because it’s kinda funny. It’s a competitive version of the usual tabletop game. I need a strategist and Sam says you’re the best. Please?”

“Fine,” Castiel agrees more to appease her than out of any desire to participate. Despite the disaster of an evening, he finds that he does like Charlie so he quickly punches in his name and number on the offered phone.

“I think I love you.”

“I strongly advise against acting on those feelings,” he says and passes back her phone.

Charlie laughs. “I’ll let Sam know you had to go. See you on the other side of the keyboard!” She holds up her right hand with her fingers spread in an uncomfortable looking way that seems to be some kind of wave. He waves back uncomfortably then walks away. Meg stalks after him down the sidewalk grumbling and complaining that she can never have any fun with him around.

“You could have stayed,” he points out.

Meg snorts. “And done what? Charlie wasn’t going to put out and I can’t get drunk without someone around to make sure I get home, and that was supposed to be you. I don’t know why I bother.”

“And yet next year we’ll go through the same motions of you dragging me out and me ruining your evening, just like this year and the two previous.”

“Hey, somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t die in a book avalanche. Besides, it got you a girl’s phone number, didn’t it? The girl  _ I _ was angling for, but whatever. Plenty of fish and all that.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Receiving a girl’s phone number holds much different connotations for me, an asexual person only interesting in romantic relations with men, than it does you. Besides, technically I gave her  _ my _ number.”

“Look at you getting all feisty. We’d better get you home to your laptop before you pull something.”

“Finally.”


	4. Age Twenty-Eight

Castiel beams. “Very good Tatiana. Juan, can you tell me what the next word is?”

Using his pointer, a thin wooden rod with a carved black and yellow bee on the end, Castiel points at the tenth and last word on the whiteboard, but Juan is already blurting out, “Raincoat!”

“Perfect,” says Castiel, or as the children know him, Mr. Novak. His class this year is so bright and interactive. He loves it. “That’s all of our spelling words and it looks like it’s time for music.”

Elliott, Sydney, and Javier jump out of their seats, but a stern look from Castiel and a firm, “walk please,” has them slowing down as they line up at the door.

“Are you going to dance for us again?” Sophia asks, dark eyes glittering with anticipation. Castiel smiles fondly as he leads the class out of the classroom.

He casually mentioned his ability to dance “like a ballerina” once and the little heathens latched onto that and haven’t given him a moment’s peace since. A month ago he finally caved under the combined pressure and gave a small performance during their music class with Mrs. Alevera accompanying him on piano.

The kids loved it, even the boys who had doubted him before confessed that it was pretty cool that he could do all that “even though he’s a boy”. Castiel only hopes the experience has led them to become accepting and open-minded individuals. Unfortunately, the small appeasement did nothing to stave them off; if anything, they are more eager than ever for a repeat performance.

“Not today. Mrs. Alevera has an actual lesson plan she’d like to follow, I’m sure. However,” he raises his voice to be heard over the exaggerated groans of his students, “I’ve decided to enter the talent show in December.”

It was poor planning on his part, he will admit, to break the news in the middle of the near silent hallway just before handing off his students to another faculty member. His gentle reprimands of, “inside voices, please. Students are learning,” do little to calm their enthusiastic chattering. Ah well. It’s not a long trip at any rate.

He leaves his students in Mrs. Alevera’s capable hands, shooting her an apologetic grimace before slipping away to the teacher’s lounge for a much-needed break. He collapses onto the saggy sofa that someone liberated from an estate sale last year and pulls out his phone. He shoots off a quick text to Meg asking about her play. She got the lead after months of grueling training and last night was opening night. Considering he’s in Kansas and she’s in New York, he didn’t make it and he wants to know how it went.

Text sent, he opens his Pinterest app, his latest obsession and 100% his father’s fault. Last spring, he suggested they try it out so Castiel could help him plot out his garden despite the long distance between them. Six months, one fully blossoming garden, and eleven boards later, Castiel is still using the app. He pins a mug to his “Home Life” board and blinks in surprise as a text flashes across the top of the screen.

The surprise fades when he sees it’s not Meg, she’s never timely in her responses, but rather Charlie (of course) begging to know if he’s available at six for a siege. He’s not. He has very important plans that he can’t cancel and he tells her as much.

It rarely happens that he gets a night off and when he’s got all the funds he needs for his dance studio, that time will be even more difficult to come by. So, he covets his free time, knowing soon enough there will come a time when he’s teaching 12 hour days. He can’t wait.

.

~*~

.

That evening he hauls himself through his front door, bone tired and trailing glitter. Still, it’s not hard to conjure up a smile when Megara, his pretentious two-year-old kitten greets him at the door for once.

“Did you miss me?” he coos softly, squatting down to run his hand along her back. She arches up into his touch and curls back to deliver a baleful stare before trotting off to the kitchen with her tail held high.

“Of course,” Castiel mutters, amused despite himself as she lets out an impatient “ _ meow _ ,” from around the corner. Megara was a gift from Meg when she started traveling and declared that he would wither and die if not for her company. Meg named her, of course, but Castiel doesn’t mind. She has been a fair companion these past years and although he would never admit it aloud, she’s helped dispel any encroaching loneliness without the constant presence of his longest-held friend.

Charlie has become another of his good friends over the years, but she’s not persistent like Meg. He and Sam still speak online, although not nearly as often as they were known to in their youth. Real life is far too busy for either of them to not only invest extra time in online games but also sync their schedules, especially now that Sam is out of law school and practicing. He’s already offered to be Castiel’s lawyer for his dance studio once he gets the funding for it and Sam opens his own practice.

Castiel glances at the growth chart pinned to the wall beside the fridge as he reaches for the Fancy Feast stashed atop the freezer. Red Sharpie alters the inches to dollars with $150,000 written in boldly across the top. He’s been penny-pinching and living off ramen noodles and cheap hot dogs and it’s been worth every dime. He’s just under halfway there.

He made the joke to Sam that at this rate he’ll be set up all cozy in his very own dance studio while Sam is still stuck pushing papers for Morningstar Incorporated. Sam had messaged back a short, “You’re on,” and within three months he’d gotten on as a junior partner at a different firm. Castiel canceled his Netflix after that and returned his brand-new TV and put that $300 into savings instead.

He’s not sure how a client-advisor relationship is possible with Sam in California and Castiel all the way in Kansas, but he knows they’ll find a way to make it work. After a decade of friendship, Castiel trusts Sam and knows that they push each other to achieve great things. He can’t say how many times Sam has talked him out of giving up on his dreams or settling for ‘good enough’, and he owes him for that.

Once Megara has been fed and watered, Castiel makes himself a quick sandwich and takes it and a tall glass of water with him to his bedroom to change. By the time he’s in his running things, the sandwich is gone and the water halfway towards the same fate. He finishes it and beats a hasty exit, retracing his steps of not ten minutes ago with new energy. He’s careful to be quiet in the hall, but he leaps down the small set of stairs leading to the outside door and jogs along the side of the road. Unluckily, his neighborhood doesn’t have sidewalks.

His run is a short one- long enough to warm his muscles, but not so long as to tire him out. Once he’s back in his apartment he makes a bee-line for the living room, panting lightly as he regains his breath. It’s not much of a living room: smallish and boxy, but it’s the entire reason for choosing this apartment. Its hardwood floors and ground level locale make it one of a kind here in KC.

He would know. He spent nearly six months searching all the city and almost gave up hope before his real estate agent finally dug up a vacancy at Little Fish Lofts. Until then he thought he may have to settle on renting a house- buying is obviously not an option with his savings quota and plans to live in the loft above his studio. The problem with renting is he has no desire to spend his free time trying to upkeep a yard for the sake of his neighbors’ opinions.

But he found exactly what he needed. Sure, the hour drive across town to the school is unpleasant, the perpetually moldy bathroom is repellant, and the lack of pedestrian walkways can be dangerous, but here, he can dance.

He does his stretches and runs through his positions without turning on the stereo.

The talent show is still a month away, but he wants his set to be absolutely perfect for the kids. It took him this long to settle on the music selection. Should he show them something traditional? He likes the thought of proving that yes, boys can leap and plie and pirouette and still be worthwhile, but he also likes the idea of showing them how dance has grown and evolved and how ballet can be put to modern music and morph into something thrilling and still beautiful.

Finally, he decided, why not both? Meg wrote a short piece for the beginning and recorded it and then Castiel sent it and the second music selection to Charlie and she combined them into something wonderful. Now, all that’s left is for him to decide on choreography. He considered doing something more spontaneous like what he did for his class, but in the end, he decided they’ve seen him improvise, now is the time for something polished.

First, he needs to get a better feel for the music and find out what comes naturally. Only then can he deconstruct it and give it that edge he’s always chasing, something that teeters on the cusp of strange, but always falls back into breathtaking.

He sets the stereo to  _ Play _ and gets into position. Softly, the piano fades in and he lets the easy plucking of the keys carry him.

.

~*~

.

The stage lights are dim— Well, technically there is no stage in the multi-purpose gym/cafeteria and the lights only have two settings, off and  _ bright _ , but in Castiel’s head the lights are dim, the audience is suspended in a hush, and he stands alone, center stage, feet shoulder width apart, hands in loose fists at his sides, and his chin tucked to his chest.

In his head, he’s shirtless with only small, plain black pair of spandex shorts interrupting the expanse of tanned, lightly oiled skin – only enough to give it a shine. In reality, he’s wearing a plain white undershirt that exposes the farmer’s tan on his biceps and gray sweatpants that cinch around his calves.

Both in his head and in the elementary school gymeteria he wears his pink slippers, ribbons twined around his ankles where they tie off in neat bows.

A simple piano melody filters through large boxy speakers, echoing in the large room. To Castiel, it sounds pure as rain and gentle as falling snow.

He begins to move, small clumsy movements that become smoother with practice and patience. He twirls. The piano hits a harsh note and he falls. A small gasp is the only sound from the audience. He doesn’t have to imagine the suspense any longer. He struggles back to his feet and tries to find his place in the music. He begins to dance once more, growing more fluid as he gains confidence.

Another wrong note and he stumbles.

A third and his knees hit the floor.

He stands and mid-leap the piano clangs out a jarring chord and he crumples. The piano trips and fumbles before coming to a complete stop leaving the room in dead silence save the static of the speakers and the whispers. Castiel stays down, curled over his knees with his hands covering his face.

He looks up, letting his hands fall and listens. No, he shakes his head and drops his chin. His chin is jerked right back up and he listens once more. He lifts his hand as though to accept help, then changes his mind and tucks it against his chest and turns away. His shoulder pulls back and he’s spun back around and again he listens.

A guitar begins to strum, steady and quick. He extends his hand once more and is pulled stumbling to his feet. His left shoulder rocks back as though from a blow and shock crosses his face. Then his right shoulder does the same. A moment later he ducks and as he springs back up he finally throws a punch of his own and a voice through the speakers sucks in a deep breath and the music begins in earnest. Fast. Loud. Aggressive.

Castiel spins, leaps, hooks, and jabs. His movements, at first jerky and unfamiliar quickly grow sure and graceful. He spins in the air and lashes out with a foot. He rolls and lands in a split that turns into a low sweeping kick. He pirouettes across the floor and delivers a right hook to an unseen assailant. He  _ dances _ , no holds barred; strong and fluid and powerful. He leaps across the stage, dips back and follow through with a back bend, that carries on to a back flip, then an aerial and he’s back to center stage, first position.

The piano returns, melding seamlessly with the guitar in a joyous duet.

Castiel returns to the traditional ballet from the beginning, now with a surety and grace that had been missing before. He lifts a leg straight to create a vertical line and dips his upper body, bringing himself around in a single rotation. He glides around the floor, lighter than a feather and twice as swift.

He raises his arms above his head in a perfect oval and spins, slowing with the music and bringing his arms around and down until music fades entirely and he plants his foot, ending how he began: alone center-stage, feet shoulder width apart, hands fisted loosely at his sides, but this time, his chin is up.

In Castiel’s mind the lights dim and flicker out as the curtain drops and the audience climbs to their feet amidst wild cheers and whistles.

In the Monroe Elementary gymeteria applause bounces and echoes in the boxy room a small herd of children scattered through the audience pop up like prairie dogs and rush Castiel.

He shakes his head, lips forming an inaudible “no,” as he tries to catch his breath, but it’s too late. Within seconds he’s being swarmed. The kids cluster around him, all talking at once, waving their arms and tugging on his already loose sweatpants. He quickly grabs the waistband with both hands lest he lose his pants in front of a solid chunk of the student body and their families.

He starts several sentences, but the kids are so excited they don’t even realize he’s talking. Will waves his arm with a little too much animation and manages to clock Penny right in the nose causing her eyes to immediately water. He needs to gain control  _ now _ .

“Criss-cross, applesauce,” he chants loud enough for the children to hear. They do and immediately fall in with the familiar rhyme, performing the actions they learned with it. “On my rear, root beer. Back straight, chocolate shake. Hands in lap, ginger snap. Lips zipped, coooool whip. Ssshhhhh.”

Finally, all the children are sitting quietly and looking up at him attentively, though a few still whisper excitedly to their neighbors and wiggle restlessly on their bottoms. Castiel will take what he can get. He waves off the concerned parents and teachers hovering nearby and sitting cross legged with his class plus a few extras.

“Thank you,” is all Castiel gets out before they all burst into babbling once more. He holds up and hand and the peter off. “I am so glad that you all enjoyed my performance and I would love to talk to you all about your favorite parts and what surprised you and what you were thinking, but now is not the time. The show isn’t quite over yet so I need all of you to go back to your families and listen as attentively as you are now to Principal Mulberry. Can you all do that please?”

The kids all groan and start clambering to their feet.

“If you’d like we can talk about it during craft time when we return from winter break. We can even make it a writing activity.”

This seems to appease more of them, though Javier looks less than pleased, understandably, considering writing is his most challenging subject. Castiel gives him an apologetic shrug which earns him a smile if nothing else.

He stands as the children begin to clear off and feels a tug on his sweatpants. He looks down and finds little Mary from Ms. Vanderbury’s class who they share music class with twice a week.

“But Mr. Novak, I’m not in your class.” She looks miserable about it too. Castiel squats down.

“How about you write a sentence and draw a picture about your favorite part at home and bring it to music with you on Tuesday after break. You can give it to me then.”

“What if Ms. Vanderbury doesn’t let me?”

Christine Vanderbury is one of the strictest teachers in the district. Castiel has always felt she would be much better suited for a high school or college level, but she maintains that she wasn’t made equipped for dealing with teenagers. Castiel maintains that she wasn’t made equipped for  _ teaching _ , but that’s neither here nor there.

“I will tell her to expect it and if she doesn’t like it I will find you after lunch and we will go get it from your locker together, okay?”

Mary throws her arms around his neck in a strangling hug that almost knocks him flat. “Okay! See you after Christmas!”

“Goodbye Mary,” he says, unable to hold back the smile that pulls free in the face of her unrestrained joy. She rushes into the audience, but turns back at the last second.

“Oh yeah, and my dad says you’re  _ amazing _ ,” she shouts, giving him a gap-toothed grin and then she’s off again, leaving Castiel faintly blushing in her wake. He watches her go until she’s climbing into the lap of a well-built man in a leather jacket yammering on about something or another. The man looks up and Castiel briefly meets startlingly green eyes with a shy smile before they both turn away. Castiel does a double take when he catches sight of the tall man beside Mary’s father waving as enthusiastically as Castiel’s students. Castiel frowns for a long moment before it clicks.

“Sam?” he asks, despite knowing there’s no way the man could hear him. He hasn’t seen Sam face-to-face in years, but he’s sure it’s him. He’s  _ huge _ . A mountain of a man.

Sam is beaming and giving Castiel a double thumbs up. Castiel rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the pleased smile. He knows Sam doesn’t know the first thing about dance, but he’ll take the compliment regardless.

Principal Mulberry calls for everyone’s attention through her microphone and Castiel takes that as his cue to be gone from the limelight. She gives out the closing comments and thanks everyone who performed and the audience for coming out to support them.

Castiel slips from the room before she finishes and is immediately accosted with congratulations and thumps on the back from the faculty lurking in the hallway waiting to direct the exiting rush. He smiles and thanks them, but their words pale to the experience of being swarmed by a flock of awed children. His chest feels light and his fingers tingle with a performance high as he ducks into the lounge where he stashed his things before the show and begins to unlace his slippers.

“Cas?”

He looks up to find Sam has somehow managed to track him down and stands to greet him.

“Hello, Sam. How did you…” Castiel trails off as Sam lifts large palms into a bewildered shrug, still grinning.

“I didn’t. I’m in town for the holidays and came to watch Mary.”

Castiel frowns. Mary had performed early in the evening; a soulful if horribly off-key rendition of  _ Ramble On _ . He’s never learned Mary’s last name, but surely Sam would have mentioned to him if he’d had a child. Not to mention, he lives and works in California while Mary has been attending school here in Kansas since at least the beginning of the year. Perhaps he’s speaking of a different Mary.

“Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!”

Little Mary from Ms. Vanderbury’s class barrels through the door and Sam turns just in time to scoop her up and get a face full of blonde curls.

“Oh, you’re talking to Mr. Novak!” She beams his way, pink tongue poking through the gap where her front tooth should be. “I told my dad what you said about the story and he said we can work on it this weekend and maybe Uncle Sam could help too!” She leans across the air between them to whisper conspiratorially so Castiel leans close. “But I don’t want him to help cuz he’s a bad draw-er.”

“Hey!” Sam protests, but Mary ignores him, save a consoling pat to his forearm.

“But my daddy’s the best draw-er in the whole world so I know you’ll really like it.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it even if your uncle makes me look like a monkey.”

Mary glares suspiciously at Sam for a long moment until convinced that he won’t be sabotaging her artwork.

“Anyway,” Sam interjects before Mary can start again. “I’ll be in town through Christmas so we should get together sometime, get some coffee and hang out or something. I can’t tonight, gotta track down some lost luggage, but I’ll see if I can drag Dean along and you can finally meet him, assuming you don’t run off again,” he teases.

Castiel rolls his eyes. Over the last seven years, he still hasn’t managed to live down running out on Sam at a college party and then evading the dreaded “dance is not inherently feminine” talk with his brother for the next full year until he graduated and moved to Kansas City. Although he did spend time with Sam in person several times, he was always quick to avoid the brother. He had enough experience with his type in high school, thanks.

He thinks maybe it’s a little strange that he’s been friends with Sam for so long and yet he’s never met his brother who is clearly the most important person in Sam’s life, but Castiel’s never been very social and meeting new people has always made him anxious. Especially a new person that he knows wouldn’t be comfortable with who Castiel is as a person and what he chooses to do with his life.

Then again, he thinks back to green eyes and the words, ‘ _ my dad said you’re amazing’ _ and thinks perhaps he’s made a mistake.

“Alright,” Castiel agrees and Mary squeals.

“This is gonna be the best Christmas ever! Only coffee is gross. Can I have chocolate milk instead?”

Castiel opens his mouth and closes it again, looking to Sam for guidance. Sam appears just as bewildered and equally as reluctant to crush Mary’s excitement.

“Suuure?”

“YES!” Mary fist pumps and wiggles until Sam sets her down. “I’m gonna tell dad!”

“Wait! Do you even know where he is?” Sam asks, exasperated.

“Yeah,” Mary replies. The trailing “duh” is implied. “He said to be a distraction so he can get rabbit food across the street for you Uncle Sam. He’s probably done. I’ll go get him!”

“Wait, Mary!” She ignores Sam and flies out the door and into the hall. “Shit. I’ll message you!” Sam calls over his shoulder as he hurries to catch up with the small girl.

“Goodbye, Sam.”

The door falls shut and Castiel finds himself very suddenly alone. He smiles to himself as he gathers his things and slips into his sneakers. Dragging his coat over his shoulders he makes his way out the side door to the teacher’s parking lot, returning a wave to Tatiana as she trails along after her grandmother.

He slides into his rusty pickup and closes the door behind him, finally breathing a sigh of relief. He loves to perform; he loves the high that an enthusiastic crowd gives him. He could do without the in-person congratulations afterward. He’d much rather go straight home to his cat and an oversized sweater and a book.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He glances briefly at the screen before scowling and tossing it into the passenger seat so he can start the truck. Cold air bursts out of the vents, but he leaves the blower on full. It’ll warm up soon enough and he doesn’t like having to mess with the controls while he’s driving.

In the passenger seat, his phone stops vibrating and flashes _Missed Call_ , displaying the unfamiliar number. Castiel doesn’t screen his calls per say, but he’s not going to socialize with some stranger on the phone if it’s in his power to avoid it. They’ll leave a voicemail if it’s important.

He waits another minute more, huddled in his coat and breathing on cold fingers before he belts in and shifts into reverse. The parking lot behind him is clear as he eases his foot off the brake and starts to roll back.

A horn blares, long and loud as a silver car darts past. Castiel slams the breaks and resists the urge to honk back. There’s no reason to be driving that fast in an elementary school parking lot. He takes a breath to calm his thudding heart and tries again.

His old truck successfully maneuvers out of the tight space and he gratefully makes his way home. It’s a bit of a drive, 45 minutes without traffic, but being able to dance whenever he pleases - it’s worth it.

It’s after nine when he gets home, pulling into a too small parking space at the back of the lot like he always does. His monster of a truck barely fits in the undersized spaces and he hates feeling bothersome to his neighbors and their guests, not to mention he’d rather avoid trying to squeeze in and out of his cab without door dinging whichever brave soul parked beside him.

The parking lot is icy as he makes the walk to his building, carefully hitching his duffle bag more securely onto his shoulder. He fantasizes about the hot tea and blankets that await him inside. Lots and lots of blankets. The cold has never agreed with him.

He slips on the stair leading up to his door and has a moment of crushing horror where he can clearly picture his broken ankle and ruined dance aspirations, but he catches himself on the rail and lets himself in the door making a mental note to throw down some ice melt on the stoop.

Not ten minutes later he’s curled on the couch under no less than five blankets cradling a mug of tea between cold hands while Megara plays with the frayed corner of an old throw. He sighs happily and sinks further into the couch just as his phone on the counter buzzes.

He glares at it from across the room. He’s tempted to leave it, but in the end he sighs and shuffles his way out of his nest, setting his tea on the coffee table. He’s an adult with a job and bills and it could very well be important. He trudges over and flicks the now dark screen.

It’s a text from Charlie asking how his performance went. He regrets leaving the couch. He’s about to ignore her and return to his lounging, but the voicemail icon at the top of the screen catches his eye and he remembers the missed call from earlier. He raps his knuckles against the counter top indecisively. Whatever it is could probably wait until morning, but he won’t be able to relax with it nagging at him.

He hits  _ Play _ .

“This is Methodist Hospital in Orange County, Florida,” a calm and cool female voice begins. “Mr. Novak, I’m sorry to call with bad news, but I’m afraid your father has been in an accident and it doesn’t look good…”

Castiel doesn’t hear the rest; his feet are already moving, carrying him straight out the door then back inside for his wallet, keys, phone, and shoes. He doesn’t remember crossing the parking lot, but his truck is roaring to life so he slams it into gear, makes a hasty reverse, and guns it out of the parking lot.

He feels sick. His heart is lodged in his throat and it hurts to breathe. Ever since his mom passed when he was in high school, his dad has been the only family he’s had and vice versa. It was hard moving so far away, but they survived his college years in California and discovered they could still be close over long distance so suddenly the move to the Midwest didn’t seem so bad.

Not to mention, his dad has the funds to make semi-frequent visits throughout the year and they always find a way to get together for holidays. In fact, they’re supposed to be meeting halfway in Tennessee for Christmas in just a few days. They already have  _ reservations _ . His dad can’t— He’s fine. He has to be. Castiel would know if it was bad. He’d feel it.

Castiel slams the truck into park in the loading zone of the Kansas City airport before it’s fully stopped. He doesn’t feel the cold seeping through his knit sweater as he sprints inside and skids to a stop in front of the counter.

“What’s the first flight to Florida?”

“Sir, there’s a line—,”

“My father is alone in a hospital in Florida. He’s hurt—,” Castiel’s throat closes. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath and starts anew. He opens his eyes and gazes imploringly into the deep brown eyes of the woman behind the counter. “I need to be on the next available flight to Florida.”

The woman turns to clack away at her keyboard.

“Please.” Castiel’s voice cracks.

She doesn’t look away from her screen and Castiel’s temper flairs sending a hot burst of anger boiling up the back of his throat.

“Have you no basic human—,”

“We don’t have any flights going directly to Florida and we don’t have anything going out tonight. The soonest we have is tomorrow, departing at 3:35 would put you in Newark around 5:45, then there’s an hour layover and you’d get to Orlando around 9:30.”

“A.M.?”

“P.M.” She looks up with pity in her eyes. Castiel shakes his head, back away from the desk.

“Not fast enough,” he mutters. “It’s a 19-hour drive. I can make it if I—,”

“Sir,” the woman interrupts, standing from her chair. “You’re in no condition to drive five minutes, let alone 19 hours.”

“You can’t stop me.”

The woman straightens her spine and her eyes flash with steel.

“With all due respect,” she spits, “my daughter was killed by a distracted driver not much different from yourself. If you have a single shred of  _ human decency _ in you, you will not get behind the wheel.”

Castiel falters and softens, but panic still thrums in his veins.

“He’s all I have and he’s alone.”

“I’ll drive him,” a voice behind him says. Castiel whirls around to face the speaker. His first impression is that he seems fatherly, yet that makes no sense. He’s wearing a dark leather jacket and faded jeans cover bowed legs. His face is male model handsome and his hair carefully gelled to perfection.

_ Maybe it’s the freckles or the soft green eyes _ , Castiel thinks absurdly before putting the strange thought out of his head entirely.

“Thank you,” he breathes as the woman behind the counter asks, “Are you sure?”

Castiel glares at her, but she ignores it, focusing entirely on the stranger as he steps out of line to approach them at the desk.

“Yeah, it’s no problem. Hey buddy,” the man digs in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, “you wanna grab me a coffee and we can hit the road? If I’m gonna be up for the next 18 hours then I’m gonna need some caffeine.”

“19,” Castiel corrects automatically and accepts the offered five dollar bill. The stranger grins devilishly.

“You haven’t met my baby yet so I’ll forgive the doubt, but trust me. It’ll be 18 max.”

Castiel squints at the man. He was correct then, the man has a child, though Castiel has no idea what this baby has to do with travel time. He doesn’t currently have the mental faculties to address it so he ignores it. Mostly.

“Is there someone to watch your baby while you’re away?” he asks. The teacher in him won’t let him leave without making sure this child is well taken care of.

The man’s face crinkles like he’s trying to hold back a smile then straightens out into an amused grin.

“Baby’s in the parking lot. You’ll like her. As for my daughter, she’s with my brother. He won’t mind some one-on-one time with her for the next couple days.”

Nothing the man says makes sense so Castiel nods and walks away lest they wind up in another time sucking circular conversation. The coffee machine is tucked in a small alcove to the right of the main doors so Castiel can fetch the coffee and watch the man as he approaches the woman at the counter and they speak quietly. She nods in understanding at whatever he tells her and seems to finally accept their solution to the situation.

_ Good _ , Castiel thinks and turns his full attention to the machine that doesn’t appear to want the man’s five dollar bill. He’s not entirely convinced the man isn’t somewhat crazy, but beggars can’t be choosers and Castiel is begging.

The machine finally accepts the money and a slow trickle of brown coffee begins to trickle from the spigot into the waiting cup. Castiel stares intently until he figures it’s full enough and removes the cup, leaving the remaining drips to fall into the catch as he snaps on a lid and hurries over to where the man is standing with his back to Castiel and his phone pressed to his ear.

Castiel catches something about a canceled coffee date and then he’s saying his goodbyes, stowing his phone in the pocket of his jacket, and turning to face Castiel. When he catches sight of Castiel, the man flinches back then scrubs a hand down his face.

“Dude, don’t do that,” he complains weakly. Castiel frowns.

“You asked for coffee,” he says, nonplussed. He got him coffee. He’s done nothing else.

“Right.” He takes the offered cup. “Well, let’s go I guess. I’m all squared away.”

_ Finally _ .

They only make it so far as the opposite side of the front doors before the next roadblock rears its ugly head in the form of the public safety officer tucking a ticket under his truck’s windshield wiper.

Castiel strides forward without a second thought.

“That won’t be necessary,” he snaps. The officer glances up, unimpressed, and slaps the wiper down on the slip.

“No parking, anytime,” is all he says before trundling off into his vehicle and driving away, yellow light spinning. Castiel snarls and rips the ticket off. Everything is taking too long. He’s wasting time.

“We can leave it at FedEx,” the man says out of the blue.

“What?”

“You need somewhere to leave your truck, right? There’s a FedEx on Mexico City Avenue and ditching it there is faster than registering for long term. The worst that happens is you get towed and I happen to know the guy who’ll get called. I’ll let him know not to sell it off or anything. But if you’re lucky, no one will give a shit and it’ll still be there when you get back.”

“Why can’t I just leave it here then?” Castiel snaps impatiently.

“Cuz this is city property. It’d get towed to a city impound lot and auctioned off within 10 days,” the stranger says, rolling his eyes like this should be common knowledge.

“Fine,” Castiel agrees, digging his key out of his sweatpants and climbing into his truck with only a belated, “Meet me there,” in parting to the man. He slams his door and cranks the ignition. The truck fires to life with a roar and he tears off. He glances back in his rearview and catches the stranger glaring at him as he speed-walks towards the short-term parking lot.

Finding the FedEx building isn’t difficult. Castiel parks on the side of the building where he hopefully won’t be in the way and then walks to the end of the drive shivering as he waits for the stranger to arrive. He wishes he would have remembered his coat. While his sweatpants keep his lower half modestly warm, the wind cuts straight through his knit sweater.

After five minutes of waiting, Castiel is considering getting back into his truck and driving himself to Florida, heedless of that woman’s warning. The stranger clearly changed his mind. He’s not coming. The coffee was bad. Castiel was too rude, too brisk, and he decided not to waste his time and gas. Should Castiel have offered gas money? He should have offered gas money. He should have offered to drive him to his own vehicle, in the interest in saving time if nothing else.

A sharp honk breaks him from his spiraling thoughts and there’s the stranger, leaning out the window of a sleek black beast.

“I thought we were in a hurry,” he prods with a smirk.

Castiel says nothing in lieu of striding around the great boat of a car and climbing into the passenger seat. There’s a surprising amount of legroom, not that he pays it much mind.

“I’ll pay for gas.”

“We can go half and half. Baby gets thirsty.”

“…Alright. If we take I29 to—,”

“Ah-ah,” the stranger interrupts, slamming the gas and spinning out unnecessarily as he merges back into traffic. “I know how to get south, alright? I didn’t sign up for no navigator.”

“Double negative,” Castiel mutters petulantly. The stranger shoots him a look that appears somehow pleased, but says nothing. Instead, he cranks up the stereo, filling the car with a loud wailing guitar and drums. 

Castiel stares out the window at the passing street lamps and thinks back to his last road trip companion. His dad had flown out and driven with him from Palo Alto to Kansas City to help him with his big move after college. That was when he got his truck too. He hadn’t needed a personal vehicle up until then and a truck had seemed the most sensible for hauling his things halfway across the country. Unfortunately, the woman selling the truck had not been the most reputable and it broke down before they even managed to cross the state line.

Their two-day drive had taken a full week and Castiel loved every minute. They soaked in natural springs and hiked a dusty mountain trail while they waited for the alternator to be replaced in California. They went fishing in the Kaibib National Forest in Arizona while the water pump was being repaired and then went on a guided pony ride while it was being replaced after they didn’t even make it out of the lot.

Just outside of Amarillo, Texas while the drive belt was being exchanged, they visited the Wildcat Bluff Nature Center and Castiel saw his first bobcat and his dad nearly peed himself when they got too close to a rattlesnake and it warned them off.

After that, they made it all the way to Cimarron Travel Plaza in Oklahoma where they stopped to take pictures with the giant dog statue and get Dairy Queen. When they restarted the truck the air conditioning wasn’t working. They suffered as far as Topeka, driving with the windows down on the interstate before they stopped and got it fixed, but it was worth getting to see Ballet Midwest perform Swan Lake. From there it was only an hour drive to Kansas City and his truck was in the best shape it’s been in since it rolled off the line.

He doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he and the truck will be the only ones left to carry those memories.

.

~*~

.

Castiel glares at the  _ Out of Order _ sign on the ATM and gives the useless machine a spiteful kick.

“Dude. Not cool,” the pimply cashier says from behind a magazine. Castiel glares at him too and stalks off, collecting snack foods from around the store without discrimination. Selections made, he dumps the small bounty on the counter and scowls at a glossy blonde with perfect teeth until the young man sighs and drops the magazine.

“Our scanner’s out so I gotta punch ‘em in by hand,” he drawls.

Castiel grinds his teeth as he painstakingly keys in the digits one at a time. Almost a full minute later the first item appears on the screen.

“I’m going to the restroom,” Castiel says and turns sharply on his heel.

“What about the other customers?”

Castiel stares coolly around the deserted store. It’s going on 3am and the only other soul in sight is his kind stranger at the gas pump filling up his great beast of a car.

“You’ll manage.” It comes out an order.

He stalks off a second time and pushes into the restroom. The lights are dim, the amenities could use updating, and the air freshener is overwhelming, but it’s clean. After doing his business, he stands at the sink and fills his cupped hands with warm water then sinks his face into the small pool. The water drains from between his fingers so he fills them again. And again.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he stares into his reflection, blinking water from his eyes and letting the droplets roll over the crest of his cheek bones before getting lost in his stubble. He takes in the dark bags under his eyes, worse than he’s seen them in years, his five o'clock shadow, the way his skin tightens around his eyes and goes slack over his cheeks. He’s aged 10 years in the span of less than a day. The stranger suggested he try to sleep, but he can’t. How can he sleep while his dad is in the hospital, hurt and possibly dy—

He can’t stay stationary for long. He dries himself with a paper towel and goes back to the front of the store. He stares down the cashier as he punches in the final two items and finally he can slide his card. He doesn’t wait for his receipt, simply scoops up his purchases and shoulders his way out the door.

“Have a nice night,  _ dick _ ,” the cashier mutters behind him.

Castiel collapses into the car, dropping a package of Hostess cupcakes to the floor as he does, and dumps the rest of his bounty onto the empty span of the bench between himself and the stranger. The man looks it all over with a quirked eyebrow.

“No coffee?” is all he says. Castiel plucks up a cold white can and passes it over. “Ugh, monster? Do you hate me?”

Castiel ignores the question. “The sluggish man inside assured me it is superior for ‘all-nighters’.”

“It’s gonna make me jittery as hell,” the man complains, but he cracks the top and takes a sip. “ _ Bleck! _ You ready?” Castiel nods. “Alright, let’s blow this joint. Pass the jerky, would you?”

He fires up the engine and classic rock blares once more from the speakers. Castiel can’t say he enjoys it, but it doesn’t necessarily bother him either. He’s never been good at filling silence and certainly isn’t in any kind of condition to try. He does admit the exuberance of the bands makes it easier to stay awake.

He tears off the top of the beef jerky and passes it to the driver, then selects a banana flavored Moonpie for himself and ignores the stranger’s disgusted glance. The sugar will help and that’s all Castiel cares about. He finishes it in four bites and tries to go back to staring out the window, but there’s nothing to see save his own face reflected back at him.

He’s staring at his phone again. He never finished listening to the voicemail- it could contain relevant information. Maybe the situation isn’t as dire as he’s imagining. Maybe his dad was conscious and asking for him to call, although Castiel has tried his cell twice to no avail. It goes straight to voicemail.

Maybe it was a joke, a cruel prank. Maybe the message ended with a  _ ‘Gotcha!’ _ . It’s doubtful, but maybe he’s making this trip for nothing. Maybe his dad just had a little scare and he’s fine now. Maybe the whole thing is an elaborate prank? Maybe—

“Just do it.” The man gives him a knowing look before turning back to the road. He’s turned down the music and Castiel wonders how long they’ve been riding in near silence without him noticing. “Whatever it is you’re obsessing over, put yourself out of your misery and do it.”

Castiel lets out a slow breath and hits play on the voicemail.

“This is Methodist Hospital in Orange County, Florida. Mr. Novak, I’m sorry to call with bad news, but I’m afraid your father has been in an accident and it doesn’t look good. I’m truly sorry to be telling you this in a message, but… he may not make it through the night. So, if you can get here, well… the sooner the better.”

She starts rattling off some contact information, but Castiel can hardly hear it over the buzzing in his head. His throat is hot and tight and his lungs feel crumpled in his chest. God.

“Breathe Cas.” The stranger thwacks his chest and Castiel sucks in a startled breath. The buzzing in his head clears a little so he takes another deep breath and another.

The steady growl of the engine escalates to a roar and the beast of a car leaps forward. The stranger has lost his easy demeanor and his green eyes glint with sharp purpose. Castiel feels sick. He wishes he hadn’t eaten the MoonPie. He wishes he hadn’t listened to that voicemail.

“Help me keep an eye out for cops,” the man says, hands firm on the wheel, his face shuttered and serious. Castiel releases a shaky breath and squints into the darkness, grateful for something to do. He’s glad now that he’s not alone in his truck. His hands are shaking in his lap and his thoughts feel disjoined and scattered as his mind wanders.

.

~*~

.

_ It’s the sixth time his mother has been hospitalized this year and only the second since they received the official diagnosis. Cancer. _

_ But today Castiel visits with good news. _

_ “Mom we did it! Meg and I managed the lift!” They’d been killing themselves over it for months now. Castiel had to build up his upper body strength to complete the full turn with Meg over his head while Meg focused on strengthening her core. Then there was the matter of gaining each other’s full trust. He thinks that took the longest, but they finally did it! _

_ “That’s wonderful,” his mother says, voice firm but tired where she lays in the hospital bed, dark brown hair fanned across the mountain of pillows supporting her back. “You know you need to keep practicing though. Pulling off a lift once isn’t going to cut it at State in April. You’re going to have to perfect it.” _

_ “Yes, I know, but—,” _

_ “But nothing. You tend to get caught up in the victory and then slack off when you should start working at it harder.” _

_ Castiel tries to hide his disappointment and nods solemnly. “I’m going to go get a drink,” he says and excuses himself from the room. It’s always the same. Nothing is ever good enough for his mom. He works so hard and the only congratulations he ever gets is to work harder. It’s not fair. _

_ What’s worse is that he’s been pushing himself too hard. He knows it, Meg knows it, even his dad has some idea. After every achievement and subsequent non reaction from his mom he feels a little more pressure to accomplish as much as he can while his mom is still here to witness it. She isn’t going to get better. _

_ He waves to Kelly at the reception desk before slipping into the small alcove that houses the only vending machine on the floor. He’s started keeping his pockets well stocked with coins for expressly this purpose. He selects D5 and waits for the arm on the other side of the glass window to retrieve his Snapple and deposit it in the retrieval pocket. _

_ As always, the first thing he does once he has it is to twist off the cap and read the Snapple Fact. Some of them are pretty weird and not entirely true, but he enjoys them nonetheless. _

**_Termites eat through wood 2x faster when listening to rock music!_ **

_ Interesting. He’ll fact check it later, but for now he wonders what kind of effect other kinds of music have on termites. Imagine battling back an infestation with smooth jazz.  _

_ He lingers in the alcove. There’s no one around to question him, but he knows he should be getting back. It’s just… It’s so hard. They only got the cancer diagnosis a few months ago and it seems like she’s only gotten worse since. She has gotten worse. It’s as though now that they know why she’s been sick, the  disease has come out of the shadows to pillage and destroy in broad daylight. Like because it no longer has to hide it can run rampant. _

_ Sometimes, in his blackest most selfish, shameful moments, he wishes she wouldn’t fight so hard. He’s been watching his mother die for months. A part of him resents her for not giving up already and putting them all out of their misery. He loves his mother with everything in him, but standing by and doing nothing while she dies hurts more than anything he can imagine. _

_ With a sigh, Castiel steps back into the hall and makes his way to her room. He stops outside the cracked open door, letting their hushed voices wash over him until he’s ready to step inside. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he hears his name. _

_ “Castiel is avoiding me. I don’t blame him, I’m just stating a fact,” his mother’s voice says, gentle and tired. _

_ “He’s not avoiding you,” his dad counters. “He loves you. This is hard for all of us.” _

_ “I said I don’t blame him,” his mother repeats, a touch of irritation coloring her tone. Her temper has been quick to light lately, but it burns out quickly as she runs out of energy. She sighs. “Promise me when I’m gone you two won’t crawl into your shells and avoid each other.” _

_ “I already-,” _

_ “Promise again. You two are all each other has. I can’t die peacefully until I know you’ll both be okay.” _

_ “Don’t talk like that.” _

_ “It’s the truth. I am going to die. Now please, promise me. Charles, please.” _

_ His dad sighs and Castiel can hear the telltale scratch of him rubbing his hand against his beard. “I promise.” _

_ “Thank you,” his mother says and then more softly, “Will you get me an ice cream? My throat hurts.” _

_ “Of course. I’ll be right back.” _

_ Castiel passes his father in the doorway, smiling feebly when he claps his shoulder on his way out. He steps up to take his place at his mom’s bedside and pats her hand. _

_ “I promise too,” he tells her. _

_ Her dark eyes well with tears and she doesn’t speak as she squeezes his hand as tight as she can manage. Castiel clears his throat. _

_ “Did you know termites can eat through wood two times faster when rock music is playing?” _

_ “That’s a good one,” she says, voice rough and eyes soft. “Are you going to add it to the jar?” _

_ Castiel frowns consideringly at the Snapple bottle clutched in his hand and nods. “I think so.” _

_ “Good. I’ve always enjoyed your Snapple Facts.” _

_ “I know, mom.” _

_ A week later he refuses to look at his mom in her casket. He wants to remember her as she was when she was alive: soft and warm and hot tempered. All that’s in that funeral parlor is a corpse and he owes it nothing. The night after the funeral, he and his dad break their promise. They don’t speak except to agree that neither is hungry and then Castiel closes himself in his room and his dad does the same in his study. _

_ It goes on for months. Castiel is angry and scared, and so so alone. The feeling escalates until Zach and his crew poke at him one time too many and Castiel lets loose everything he has. The only thing he gets in return are bruised knuckles and a full week suspension. _

_ His dad picks him up from the office, takes one look at him, torn shirt and cracked lip, and jokes, “So you wanna go to Disney World?” _

_ Castiel starts to laugh first, but his dad isn’t far behind. When they’re done they wipe their tears and head to the car. _

_ They don’t go to Disney World. Despite living in the same state as the popular park, they’ve only gone once and they hated it. Being bumped into and breathed on by millions of people is not something either of them are equipped to deal with for any length of time. Not to mention the  _ **_noise_ ** _. _

_ No, they don’t go to Disney World. _

_ Instead, they end up at the beach even though it’s cloudy and February and the water is freezing. They sit around for a long time. His dad tries to write despite the wind tearing at his notebook and the sand that gets everywhere while Castiel halfheartedly digs a hole for lack of anything better to do after the seagulls fly away having seen they didn’t bring any food. _

_ Twenty minutes in, they come to the slow realization that it was mom that they went to the beach for. And she’s gone. _

_ “Let’s get out of here,” Castiel says. His dad looks up, relief evident on his face, but he hesitates. _

_ “Are you sure?” _

_ Castiel says nothing, instead he levels a flat look in his direction and stands to dust off his pants. _

_ “What do you want to do?” his dad asks as he tries to find his pen in the sand. Castiel plucks it from behind his ear and hands it to him. _

_ What does he want to do? They went to Disney World for mom, they went to the beach for mom… What do they enjoy doing together? _

_ They end up at the movies and leave halfway through when they realize the plot seems to revolve around… well neither of them are really sure. That’s why they left. They try bowling. It’s much more fun after one of the employees takes pity upon them and puts up the guardrails. They buy a kite upon the recommendation of a six year old at the bowling alley, but can’t figure out how to put the thing together, let alone how to make it go. _

_ They rent bikes downtown and pedal around town. Dad is out of shape… _

_ Then they stumble upon a food festival covering six city blocks. They must be finishing up for the day because, while it’s still crowded, it’s not overwhelming. They sample a little of everything. Castiel discovers a new love in mangos sprinkled with chili powder and his dad discovers a mild avocado allergy. The rash clears up eventually… _

_ When the vendors finally begin tearing down, Castiel is so full he can’t imagine riding back… which is okay, because sometime in the past few hours someone stole their bikes. _

_ The walk back to the rental station takes over an hour, but Castiel doesn’t mind it. He feels good for the first time in a long time and he can tell his dad feels the same. They end up having to pay the full cost of the bikes, but he thinks it’s worth it. _

_ They climb back into the car and release simultaneous sighs of contentment. When his dad doesn’t make any move to start the car Castiel glances his way. His dad is resting his head back against his seat and his eyes are shut, but he doesn’t look tired. He looks happy. _

_ “Should we…” Go home? He thinks of their house, dark and empty and missing an essential part of what makes it home, and changes his question. “... get a hotel room?” _

_ They wind up at the Best Western; it’s not the fanciest place, but it was in their price range and had the essentials: complementary breakfast and wifi. _

_ They spend the entirety of the next day holed up in their room, gorging themselves on pizza from three different restaurants to decide which is the best (none of the above; their local convenience store tops them all). They watch bad TV and find themselves caught up in the characters’ drama anyway. Dad writes, Castiel makes a MySpace account only to delete it an hour later. _

_ For the first time since mom got sick Castiel feels like everything will be okay. He’s still sad and he still misses her, but he has dad and his dad gets him. So long as they stick together, they’ll be alright. Better than alright. His dad becomes his best friend and irreplaceable. They take in their frayed ends and stitch themselves back together until they’re happy and whole once more. _

_ And they are. _

_ And they are. _

And they were.

.

~*~

.

Five minutes from the hospital Castiel feels like his body is shutting down, or maybe it’s his brain. His body is doing what it’s supposed to: breathing, pumping blood, converting glucose into energy within the mitochondria of his cells— but everything around him is muted and sluggish. The sun still warms his skin, but he shields his eyes and turns away. Even the music blasting from the speakers sounds like it’s being played on an old worn out record, although that could be the cassette.

Surely, he would  _ know _ , wouldn’t he? If his father was gone, he would know it. He would feel it. Of course, he would.

They pull into a parking spot and Castiel stares up at the imposing front doors. There’s nothing special about them. They’re automatic and they slide, but he flinches when they open to expel a hunched woman with a cane. He releases his breath shakily when he realizes he’s holding it and forces his knees to unlock. They creak and pop as they extend and he distantly wonders how long he’s been sitting like a tin man. He’s being ridiculous. His dad is  _ fine _ . He has to be. Castiel would know if he wasn’t.

“D’you want me to ah—,”

“I’m sorry about ruining your travel plans,” Castiel interrupts briskly in a voice that doesn’t sound like him.

“What?”

“You were at the airport.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, no I wasn’t going anywhere. My brother just got into town and they lost his bag. Then I guess they found it and I lost rock, paper, scissors so I got to be the one to go pick it up.”

“Well, I’m sorry your brother is still without his belongings and you had to cancel your coffee date.”

“My wha— Oh.” The stranger gives him an odd look. Perhaps Castiel shouldn’t have brought it up. “Don’t worry about it,” he says after he’s looked his fill. “It wasn’t really a date anyway. It was actually— I think my brother is trying to set me up with his friend which is ironic because… never mind.” The man shakes his head. “You’re stalling.”

Castiel nods. “I suppose I am.” His knuckles are white where his hands rest in his lap and no matter how deeply he breathes he feels like he’s suffocating.

“You gonna barf?”

Castiel shakes his head and releases a trembling breath.

“Hey, listen,” the man shoves a crumpled receipt into his fist. Castiel looks down to where inked in numbers peek out between his fingers. The man’s fingers when they brush against Castiel’s are calloused and warm. How can he notice such a thing at a time like this? “Call me if you need anything, alright? I’m going to stick around a day or two and rest up, so if you need anything: a ride or, hell, someone to share a burger with just, you know, call.”

Castiel nods and curls the receipt into his pocket. He’ll throw it away inside. He has already taken enough from the kind stranger, enough for a lifetime he thinks.

“Thank you,” he says and woodenly climbs out of the car and enters the hospital where his mother died without a backward glance.

The reception area is neat and quiet. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of Castiel’s neck. He approaches the reception counter and tells the desk clerk his father’s name. A few keystrokes later he gets his answer from the look on her face.

He’s too late.


	5. Age Thirty-Five

“The universe is against me.”

“Fuck, you’re a drama queen!”

Dramatic or no, traffic is at a standstill. They only went this way to avoid the construction on Grand Ave. and it seems like everybody and their mothers had the same idea. That or some neanderthal caused an accident. All this after an already abysmal morning.

“ _ It’s true _ . I burned my shirt ironing-,”

“Your own fault.”

“Had to shower again to get rid of the smell-,”

“Again, your fault.”

“Knocked over the dracaena and had to borrow the neighbor's vacuum to get the dirt out of the air vent.”

“You.”

“Truck wouldn’t start.”

“I told you months ago it’s beyond time for an upgrade.”

“ _ Megara _ urinated in my  _ shoes _ .”

“Don’t say her name like that. She is a  _ goddess _ .”

“My phone didn’t charge last night.”

“Eh. That one’s a toss-up. Good ole technology…”

“ _ And _ my ride showed up on a rolling  _ deathtrap  _ instead of in a proper vehicle!”

“Again with the dramatics.”

Castiel huffs and shifts uncomfortably on the back of Meg’s squat black motorcycle.

“Stop wiggling,” she snaps, walking the bike forward two steps to match the roll of the car in front of them. It’s the most forward progress they’ve had in a full minute. “And for fuck’s sake, get your trench off the exhaust unless you want more burnt clothes.”

Castiel scowls at the back of her head but does as he’s told and gathers up the loose ends of his coat and stuffs the excess fabric between them causing it to bunch awkwardly between his legs.

“All settled back there, princess?” Meg sneers.

“As well as I can be,” Castiel sniffs.

“Good. Hold on and keep your elbows tucked.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel demands.

“Getting you to your life altering can’t-miss-it-for-the-world meeting. What’s it look like?” Meg snaps. “I’m going whether you hold on or not.”

After a lifetime of experience, Castiel knows to take Meg seriously on her threat. He wraps his arms around her waist just as the bike roars and swerves between the two lanes of sitting cars, the white dashed line flashing under the tires as they speed by.

“This is illegal!” Castiel shouts in her ear.

“Not in California!” Meg argues with a wide grin as she leans left to avoid a large side mirror on a pick up and then straightens the bike again.

“We’re in Kansas!” Castiel bellows, holding on for dear life. A horn behind them blares furiously after they speed past.

“Can’t hear you!” Meg sing songs with a gleeful laugh.

In the next moment, it becomes clear what was causing the traffic jam. There’s an accident blocking the intersection and the police are just now arriving on the scene.

Meg leans into a sudden and unexpected hard left turn into an alley that rolls Castiel’s stomach. He buries his face into the back of her leather jacket and tightens his grip. It’s not until some minutes later that they roll to a stop.

“This much touching is giving me all kinds of warm fuzzies, but we’re here, Clarence,” Meg simpers and then in a much drier tone, “You can let go now.” Castiel can practically hear her smirk.

His muscles fight to stay locked as he clumsily dismounts the bike. He unhooks stiff arms from Meg’s waist and swings his leg off and around the back only to then trip over the curb and fall on his ass.

Meg lets out a bark of laughter as Castiel struggles to his feet, grimacing at the sharp pain radiating from his tailbone.

“Such a graceful danseur,” she says, the words rolling prettily from her tongue as a wicked grin stretches her lips.

“I’m not here as a danseur. I’m here as a business owner,” he says stiffly. “Thank you for the ride. Consider our friendship terminated.” That said, he turns on his heel and makes for the imposing brick skyscraper in front of him.

“Hold on there tiger.”

Castiel stops but doesn’t turn. “Firstly, you’ve ‘terminated our friendship’ at least once a week since 7th grade so I don’t buy that. And second, you’re forgetting your super important kindergarten drawing.”

He whirls around to find her pulling a ratty red folder from the saddle bag on the side of the motorcycle and takes it from her with a chagrined stare.

“I forgot, thank you. Friendship reinstated.”

“Aww, you’re getting me all choked up. What time should I be back to pick you up?”

Castiel pulls a face.

“I’ll get a cab.”

“Suit yourself sweet cheeks.” Meg revs the engine. “Good luck!”

Castiel steps back quickly and winces as she peels out into traffic and disappears. Good riddance.

He takes a deep breath, trying to regroup and soothe his frayed nerves after his helter-skelter morning. Focus regained, he marches into the building.

“I have a meeting with Kevin Tran from D.W. Architecture & Engineering.”

The man behind the desk hardly looks up as he points him to the security desk tucked against the wall on the far right of the lobby. Castiel takes a breath and strides across the room to restate his business. The security clerk makes a paper visitor’s badge by photocopying his driver's’ license and waves him on towards the elevator bay, informing him only that DWAE is on the 25th floor.

Waiting for the elevator takes a small eternity on its own and by the time it finally arrives, four other people are waiting with him. They all pile in and Castiel has to push the button for 25 twice before it stays lit. He stands stock still as they stop on 17, again on 22, 24, and then finally 25. He steps out into an empty hallway with doors on either end. He has no idea what time it is or where he’s supposed to be meeting Mr. Tran and it’s starting to grate.

There’s a large desk at the end of the hall to his left so he makes his way there and stops. It’s completely empty, not so much as a loose paperclip. Tightening his grip on his folder, he whirls back around. There are three unmarked doors at this end of the hall and at least one more at the opposite. There’s no one in sight and he’s growing more frustrated by the second.

He didn’t select this architecture firm on a whim. He did his research and although it’s fairly new, only five years old, they already have an excellent reputation and came highly recommended on Google Reviews, but now he’s beginning to regret not going with a more seasoned outlet.

He’s moments away from digging his dead cell phone out of his pocket and coaxing it back to life to call Mr. Tran when the door to his left pops open and a young dark haired man steps out. He startles upon seeing Castiel, but quickly recovers and hones in on the paper badge the security clerk downstairs insisted he pin to his lapel.

“Oh! Are you Castiel?”

Castiel nods, too overcome with relief and still lingering irritation to be bothered with vocalizing.

“I’m Kevin, we spoke on the phone?” They shake hands. “I was just coming down to wait for you. You’re early.”

“I am?” Castiel blinks in shock. He was certain he’d be horribly late after the unending fiasco his morning turned into. Kevin smiles.

“Only by about five minutes. We usually meet our clients in the lobby and walk them up. This place can be kind of confusing.”

“I noticed,” Castiel says with a dirty look at the door Kevin came out of. There’s nothing about it at all to set it apart from the others.

Kevin forces out a nervous laugh and shifts his feet. “Yeah, Dean hates it here. He’s got a paper chain strung up in his office counting down the days until our new building is ready. It’s long.”

“Dean?”

“The owner. You’ll meet him at some point, I’m sure. He tries to be around as much as he can.” Kevin shrugs then jerks his head back the way he came. “We’re this way.”

He leads the way through the door and holds it open for Castiel to follow. To the right, there’s a maze of cubicles and on the left are a series of half-open doors to what appear to be meeting rooms. Kevin pops open the door immediately beside them and says something about paperwork but Castiel isn’t listening. He’s staring directly ahead towards the wall at the end of the aisle where an extra large, in-color blueprint hangs in a frame.

“Castiel? Is, uh-,”

“What’s this?” Castiel demands. Kevin shoots him a wary sideways glance but answers the question.

“I guess it’s one of Dean’s first blueprints? They probably colored it for artistic purposes, I don’t really know. I always thought it looked kind of childish.”

Castiel is shaking his head through the entire explanation, but at the last bit he glares. “It’s not,” he snaps. Not childish or not  _ Dean’s _ , he’s not sure which he means. All he knows is that the big blown up picture on the wall is a near exact replica of the ratty old crayon drawn blueprint in his folder. Kevin in looking at him like he’s lost his mind so Castiel removes his scuffed and torn red folder from under his arm and pulls out three notebook pages worn thin with age and a single yellowing print out of a half colored purple fire hydrant.

“That’s my dance studio.” He slaps the fire hydrant face down against the wall beside the framed blueprint and raises his eyebrows at Kevin in a clear challenge. Kevin bends closer.

“Woah.”

The similarities are even more pronounced with the side-by-side comparison. The framed version is more polished and professional, obviously, with feasible dimensions and perfect straight lines, but the designer kept the uniquely childish quirks that Castiel’s copy boasts so proudly: the cerulean blue walls and purple shutters, the large tree with a squirrel hole, the shiny gold mailslot in the door, and the white panes crossing the center of the upstairs windows.

“Did a kid draw this for you? That’s so cool. They even got the watermark.”

The “ _ no _ ,” is halfway formed by Castiel’s lips when he sees what Kevin means. The overlapped  _ DW  _ in the bottom right corner that Castiel never paid much attention to. He always assumed it was the boy’s initials, a way to mark his work. The watermark in the framed version is almost exactly the same - again neat and professional while his is drawn in green crayon.

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “I mean, a boy drew this for me, but I was seven at the time.”

Kevin turns to Castiel, bewildered, finally catching on to how strange this all is.

“But the company has only been around for…” he trails off, frowning at the corner of Castiel’s blueprint and then it’s wall-mounted counter part. “Hold on.”

Castiel stays in place as Kevin steps up to the door beside the blueprint and knocks. The nameplate reads,  _ Dean Winchester _ .

A muffled, “Yeah?” comes from the other side of the door and Kevin must take that as permission to enter because he pokes his head through the doorway and says, “you need to see this.”

Castiel straightens as he realizes he’s about to meet the owner of the company then a tall, broad shouldered man strides out into the hall. Castiel takes in worn jeans,a  blue button up with rolled sleeves, and neatly styled light brown hair. When he gets to the striking green eyes and freckles it trips a spark of recognition - not for a seven-year-old boy but for the adult version that stands in front of him.

“Cas?”

Castiel is still pushing his mind to remember where he knows this man, but clearly the man - Dean - has no such issue.

“You stole my favorite pencil,” he accuses instead.

Dean rears back, thrown. “I… what?”

Castiel hands him his blueprints and Dean takes them despite the look on his face that says he doesn’t know what to do with them. He glances at the first page and his jaw drops. He flips it to the backside revealing the purple fire hydrant.

“No way. You’re sea lion kid?”

Kevin snorts and parrots, “Sea lion kid?”

Castiel tips his head as he considers Dean further. He looks so familiar…

“I didn’t become a trainer, but I do work at the zoo in the summer and the sea lions are still my favorite.”

“And you’re a teacher,” Dean adds. “First grade, right?”

Castiel frowns.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re stealing my client?” Kevin interjects, sounding exasperated, but not upset.

“Cuz I am,” Dean says with a smug grin. “How ‘bout you go downstairs and get one of those bubble drink things you like?”

“Fine,” Kevin agrees as he begins to back away. “And those things are delicious.”

“Uh huh. Sure,” Dean turns away and misses Kevin flipping him the bird behind his back. “C’mon Cas. We can go in here.” Castiel follows his lazy gesture towards his office and once they are safely enclosed inside Dean leans back against his desk with his arms crossed over his chest and turns a wry smile onto Castiel.

“You don’t recognize me at all, do you?”

Castiel hesitates then shakes his head. He can only think of one Dean and it’s the Dean of Students at Monroe Elementary… and her name is Susan.

“You’re familiar, but I don’t… Sorry.”

“Sam Winchester’s brother?” Dean hazards after a beat.

_ Oh _ . Castiel flashes back to a cold winter night, his hair slick with sweat, and his adrenaline pumped. It was the first year he’d participated in the school talent show and he has become something of a staple ever since. The older students get the new kindergarteners hyped up and last year a few alumni even came back for the performance. It was an especially good year to do so because Meg was able to fit it into her schedule and partner with him for the first time in years.

But that first was something truly special and Castiel remembers now: green eyes, freckles, a leather jacket, and… a big black car? No, he never formally met Sam’s brother at the talent show. He must remember the car from somewhere else.

“You’re Mary’s father,” he says.

He remembers the firecracker of a girl; she was incredibly unhappy that she wasn’t in his class, but it turned out to be a moot point after Castiel’s father passed away after a nasty car accident and he took a sabbatical for the second semester. He remembers her though, because on the first day of school the following fall, she made an effort to seek him out and hand him a beautiful drawing and short story describing her favorite parts of his performance that, at that point, had taken place nine months prior. He’d been so touched that he stuck it on his fridge for the entire year before finally retiring it to his old filing cabinet to make room for gifts from his other students.

“You remember Mary?” Dean asks, drawing Castiel out of his memories. Dean’s eyes are wide with shock.

“Of course,” Castiel says, matter of fact. “She was wonderful: kind, strong-willed, smart. She must be close to high school by now.”

“Next year.” Dean shudders. “It’s going to be a nightmare.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. “It’s not that bad.”

“Says you!” Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Obviously, you don’t realize how early the band kids show up for morning practice  _ and  _ she wants to do swimming too. That’s even earlier and guess who gets to take her?” He points to his chest with a heavy expression.

Castiel can’t fight off the small grin that takes residence on his face.

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“Exactly. I’m going to end up with high blood pressure from all the coffee I’ll be drinking.”

Castiel hesitates on the cusp of asking about Mary’s mother, but all of the sudden it feels too personal. Dean doesn’t wear a ring and Castiel doesn’t recall Sam mentioning a sister-in-law or a brother-in-law for that matter.

An awkward silence falls but doesn’t have a chance to take root before Dean picks up the conversational ball once more.

“So uh, your dance studio.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I hope you don’t mind that I-,” He waves his hand broadly at the wall.

“No. It’s incredible,” Castiel tells him earnestly. “I’m amazed you were able to retain so much detail.”

Dean pulls a face and looks away, frowning at the carpet. “Yeah well, it was my first gig wasn’t it?”

Castiel’s mouth curls. “I suppose it was and now you’re going to get to go about actualizing it. Funny how these things work out.”

Dean gives Castiel a long considering look before he finally nods and says somewhat distantly. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

.

~*~

.

The following months pass in a flurry of spelling tests, subtraction flash cards, and phone calls with Dean hashing out details they forgot to discuss during one of their weekly meetings when they inevitably got carried away by one tangent or another and too late realized they were out of time. Often they opt to meet at a nearby coffee shop after office hours and those meetings could last hours, despite the lack of progress they make, but they are very educational nonetheless.

Dean is single, as Castiel suspected. Mary’s mother was a one night stand who didn’t want the responsibility of motherhood but at Dean’s request, carried the child to term on the condition that he not try and find her afterward. The last time Dean saw her was when they parted ways in the hospital parking lot.

Dean is also technically an orphan, with both parents having passed when he was relatively young. He still has Sam of course, who is settling in at his law firm and too busy courting a lovely woman named Jess to properly mock Castiel for beating him in achieving his career goals first.

Dean likes pie and loud music. He complained about ‘girlie drinks’ the first time they went out for coffee and then proceeded to dump half a kilo of sugar in his coffee. Castiel made a point to order nothing but white chocolate frappuccinos, chai tea, and a single heavily whip-creamed hot chocolate on their following visits until finally, Dean bashfully requested a caramel macchiato and Castiel was relieved to return to his usual plain coffee of choice.

Then school lets out for the summer, Castiel starts picking up hours at the zoo, and the construction company breaks ground on the lot of land that will house Castiel’s dance studio in only a few short months. After that, Dean’s role becomes more hands off in that he only needs to check in every once in a while to make sure everything is being done correctly and to code and help work out any issues that arise. And because of that, their meetings drop to a measly weekly phone call and suddenly Castiel doesn’t know what to do with himself.

All of this leads to him being out at a sushi bar at 10:30 pm on a Wednesday sitting in a booth opposite Meg.

“I don’t even like sushi.”

Meg rolls her eyes at him from other side of the table as she deftly picks up a dragon roll with her chopsticks.

“Tough,” she says and pops the roll in her mouth. Castiel pulls a face and pinches another cream cheese roll between his fingers. He painstakingly unrolls in, removes the green seaweed ( _ nori  _ as Meg insists he call it), wads the remaining cream cheese, rice, and avocado into a sticky ball, and stuffs it in his mouth.

“You’re a disgrace and you disgust me on a personal level.”

Castiel shoots her a glare that’s undermined by his full cheeks as he sucks sticky rice off his fingers. He chews furiously and swallows too quickly.

“ _ I _ wanted to get burgers,” he reminds her.

“And I told you I’m off red meat during the season,” Meg snipes back lightly as she contemplates what to eat next.

“And then I suggested Italian.”

Meg shoots him a look. “Which is loaded with carbs and fat which I also  _ can’t have _ .”

“They have salads,” Castiel grumbles, despite knowing Meg is not a salad person by any means and they don’t have enough calories to keep up with the number Meg burns off in rehearsal anyway. Of all the things he misses about performing regularly, the diet that comes with it doesn’t make the list. He eats healthy most of the time and still exercises to stay in shape, but not nearly to the extent Meg has to.

Meg chooses to ignore him, no doubt recognizing the bullshit behind the comment,

“ _ Anyway _ ,” she says, “what was the big fight about?”

Castiel looks up at her curiously. Big fight? She ignores in silent question and gives a pointed look to his hardly touched plate and clicks her chopsticks impatiently. Castiel rolls his eyes and shoves the plate across the table. Meg wastes no time in smearing them with wasabi.

“What fight?” he asks when she stuffs a roll in her mouth without elaborating.

“The big fight between you and Dean-o,” she articulates around a mouthful of rice. Castiel’s confused squint scrunches further.

He and Dean haven’t fought. In fact, they’ve hardly spoken these past few weeks compared to the months previous and he hasn’t seen him in person for almost a month. Since the construction started, Dean only goes down to check their progress every Friday and then calls Castiel with the details after. It’s not as nice as their meetings were, but it fills the need. Their latest was a dissatisfying two minutes and thirteen seconds, leaving Castiel feeling cheated ever since.

Their next phone call is due to pass in two days and he plans to drag it out a little longer, maybe even suggest a more detailed meeting over coffee. He enjoys his talks with Dean. He’s not sure what excuse he’ll be able to dredge up once his studio is complete, but he does know he doesn’t want to lose him.

“Earth to Clarence. Helloooo!”

Castiel blinks and jerks back to avoid getting smacked in the face by Meg’s waving hand.

“This is what I’m talking about,” she says, jabbing her chopsticks at him seriously. “You’ve been mooning over him for months and you never miss an opportunity to gush on and on about him, but we’ve been here for almost an hour and you’ve been completely mum. What gives?”

“I haven’t been mooning,” Castiel grumbles and sips his water. Meg rolls her eyes.

“I know Dean Winchester better than I know half of my own crew and I’ve never even met the guy.”

“That’s not-,”

“Favorite color, blue. Favorite ice cream, mint chocolate chip. Loves pie more than life itself. He makes fun of girlie drinks and then turns around and adds a metric crap-ton of sugar and cream to his coffee.”

“I think I broke him of that actually.”

Meg raises her voice. “He has a borderline  _ disturbing  _ love for his brother. He prefers beer over wine and likes dogs so long as he doesn’t have to live with one. The only thing I don’t know about him is what kind of car he drives!”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Castiel mutters. They always met either at Dean’s office or at the coffee shop in the skywalk so he’s never had the chance to-

“For the love of God, Castiel,” Meg bursts, drawing him out of his thoughts once more.

“We didn’t fight,” he says.

“Then what happened? Did he tell you your boobs aren’t big enough or something?”

“No. It’s nothing. Nothing happened. He called on Friday and told me everything was moving along on schedule and that’s it.”

Meg stares at him and then her face contorts. “Oh gross. You  _ miss  _ him,” she sneers, shoving away her empty plates. “I’ve lost my appetite.” She lifts a hand to wave over the waitress. “Check please!”

.

~*~

.

Castiel’s plans to draw out the Friday phone call turn out to be a moot point as he receives an email from Dean asking if they can do a Saturday site visit instead. Castiel agrees enthusiastically and when Saturday morning rolls around he spends half an hour deciding what to wear. It’s important to be well dressed for his first tour of his dance studio, but not overdressed.  _ Dean  _ has nothing to do with it. Obviously.

He eventually settles on his seldom worn suit with a blue tie, keeping it casual by leaving the coat unbuttoned and hopefully that way he won’t roast. His hair is a lost cause, as usual, and he did something wrong when knotting his tie because it won’t stay where it’s supposed to but he’s running late at that point so he leaves it as is.

When he arrives he parks a block over and walks to the construction site where Dean is already waiting for him, dressed casually in worn jeans and a gray henley topped with a plaid flannel despite the summer heat.

“Lookin’ good,” Dean greets with a smile as he looks him up and down. “Got somewhere important to be later?”

“No, well  _ here _ , but that’s all.”

Dean gives him a weird look but doesn’t make any further comment. Instead, he shoves a bright yellow hard hat into his hands and says, “Gotta protect that pretty head of yours.”

Castiel ducks his head to hide the pleased smile that can’t be helped and shoves the hat over his head. When he looks up again Dean is looking at him strangely.

“What?” he asks.

Dean drops his gaze and clears his throat, fitting his own hard hat carefully over his hair. “Nothin’, just…” He looks up and his gaze is drawn to Castiel’s chest. “Your tie.” With deft fingers, Dean reaches over and flips the tie around and gives the knot a bit of a wiggle. Castiel can feel the heat of his hand through his shirt as Dean smooths it down and wonders if he can feel his heart palpitating.

“That’s better,” Dean says without looking him in the eye and then too loud for just the two of them, “Shall we get started?”

The tour lasts all of twenty minutes. Everything is there in a four walls and a roof sort of way. The wiring and plumbing need to be finished and then they’ll wrap up the drywalling and install the flooring, the mirrors and whatever odds and ends go into a building and a home and then… it will be his. He stands in the center of one of two dance rooms for a solid two minutes simply trying to conquer the swell of emotions rising up in him. This is  _ his _ . It’s all his.

“You good, man?” Dean asks from the doorway.

Castiel shakes his head. “We should do a selfie.”

“A- what? You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I want to.”

“We’ll do a group photo after the final inspection,” Dean hedges, but he steps into the room.

“I want to do one now. In here. With you.”

Castiel watches in fascination as a light pink flush rushes up Dean’s neck and settles into his cheeks.

“Alright, whatever,” Dean mumbles, digging out his phone. “Just don’t cry on me or anything.”

Castiel hums noncommittally and keeps to himself his opinion that Dean would be very kind and compassionate should Castiel lose his composure.

“Alright, get in here,” Dean orders. Castiel steps in against his side and wonders if Dean realizes that he makes his voice deeper when he’s uncomfortable.

They smile for the camera, cheeks a hairs width from brushing, and Dean snaps a couple different pictures for them to chose from.

“May I?” Castiel asks when he’s done.

“Knock yourself out.” Dean hands him the phone and steps away on the pretense of checking something along the wall where the mirrors will go. Castiel flips through the pictures slowly, taking in each one before he decides on a favorite.

“Will you send me this one?”

Dean returns to Castiel’s side and takes the offered phone without looking at the selected photo. “Sure man. We good here? I kinda promised Mary lunch at Denny’s.”

“Of course,” Castiel agrees. He’s seen all he needs, although he was hoping to get to invite Dean to lunch, but he won’t encroach on his time with his daughter.

While Dean locks up Castiel removes the hard hat and fluffs his hair with his hand absentmindedly. He’s been thinking about it all week and still hasn’t come up with a good way to ask Dean out for coffee. He doesn’t want to come across as… well, it’s complicated. He will be happy with whatever small piece of himself Dean is willing to give him, but if Dean wants to try for more than friendship… Well, that would make Castiel very happy.

But it seems Dean holds all the cards and Castiel isn’t sure what his place is and what would be considered stepping outside his bounds. At the moment Dean works for Castiel so that’s tricky in its own right, but in a few weeks that will no longer be true. Then again, there’s also the fact that Dean is a single father of a teenager and dating may not be something he’s interested in. There’s also the possibility that Dean simply _ isn’t interested _ . Making a move could prove fatal to their fledgling friendship so Castiel must decide, to take the risk or take what is offered.

“Hey.”

Castiel blinks and removes his hand from the top of his head as Dean comes into focus in front of him.

“Have a nice trip?” Dean asks with a wry smile.

“Excuse me?”

Dean rolls his eyes and takes Castiel’s hard hat, stacks it inside his own, and tucks both under his arm as he begins walking to wherever he parked. Castiel follows.

“You totally checked out and went on vacation there. I just wanted to make sure you had a good time,” he explains. “Look, whatever you’re worried about, don’t. Everything is gonna work out and it’s all gonna be awesome, okay? You can trust me.”

Dean stops beside a great black shining beast of a car and turns to face him. He misses what Dean says next as a vivid image of a slightly younger Dean clad in a dark leather jacket behind the wheel of this very car whites out everything else.

“Cas? You okay, man?”

“I…” He can’t stop staring at the car. His chest feels tight and heavy as he shakes his head.

“You didn’t know,” Dean says slowly.

Castiel shakes his head again and finally tears his eyes away from the car that drove him to his father’s death and says to the space over Dean’s shoulder, “I have to go.”

He nods awkwardly and hurries off to his truck, further down the block, his mind buzzing with long-suppressed memories of the race against death that he lost.

Dean doesn’t follow him.

.

~*~

.

Dean still calls every Friday until the studio is complete. Castiel keeps the voicemails.

.

~*~

.

_ Leap! _ has been officially open for for its first full week of business and Castiel relishes his first night off since. The class sizes are small, but he did the math and he’ll be able to make ends meet at least so long as he spends frugally. Next year will be better, he’ll make sure of it.

There aren’t any classes on Wednesdays. Enough families have church service that the conflict isn’t worth it, yet he somehow finds himself in the studio anyway, stretching and warming up after an easy jog around the neighborhood  _ on the sidewalk _ . He’s gotten soft over the years, nothing that his young students would notice, but it’s enough to drive himself crazy.

He’s depressing the  _ Play  _ button on the stereo when he hears a distant knock from the front. He hits  _ Stop _ , cutting the starting notes short and makes his way to the door with a thoughtful frown, not bothering to turn on lights as he goes. Even at his apartment he rarely got visitors. He’s barely been moved in here for a month. Meg hasn’t even managed a visit yet. Who else would know that he lives here?

Castiel opens the door and his legs go numb with shock.

“Hey Cas.”

On the doorstep stands Dean in a worn t-shirt with some kind of multi colored logo on the front and soft gray sweatpants. Castiel stares as Dean ruffles a hand through his hair (soft and product free) with the hand not currently jammed in his pocket.

“Hello Dean,” he eventually manages to croak. “What…”

Dean looks down at Castiel’s feet as he answers, making him suddenly self-conscious of his pink ribboned slippers in a way he hasn’t been since high school. Dean rubs the back of his neck.

“I uh, I’m here for my first lesson, if you’re not busy.”

“You… what?”

“Back in second grade.” Dean looks up, the ghost of a nervous smile playing his lips. “You said once you got your studio all set up you would teach me how to dance. So…” Dean holds his arms out from his sides in a ‘here I am’ sort of gesture and falls silent. Castiel says nothing. He’s still trying to come to terms with  _ Dean  _ standing on what equates to his front porch looking soft and warm and unsure; he’s so different from the buttoned up, polished and professional Dean he’s used to; even if that Dean did have a tendency to wear jeans rather than slacks and roll up his shirt sleeves the first chance he got.

“Alright, uh, nevermind,” Dean says, again at Castiel’s feet. “It was a stupid idea and I didn’t even pay or anything so I’ll just… This is what I get for listening to a teenage girl. Sorry… if I made you uncomfortable.”

Dean gets no more than two steps away before Castiel’s brain finally comes up for air.

“Wait!” he teeters on the threshold of the studio, loathe to ruin his slippers on the harsh concrete. Dean stops and half turns back, not looking at Castiel.

“Will you come in? I- You surprised me… Again.”

Dean turns around. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Castiel says firmly and braces the door fully open with his arm and turns his body to make room for Dean to pass him.

Dean hesitates, but steps forward and brushes past Castiel, trailing the soapy scent of his deodorant and nothing more. Castiel allows the door to fall shut and swallows thickly in the dark of the lobby. When he’s the only one here, he doesn’t bother to use lights in any of the rooms except whichever studio he’s in.

Wordlessly, Castiel leads the way to the lit room in the back. Dean gazes around with interest, not having seen the place since the awkward final inspection wherein Castiel stopped by for a bare five minutes to snap a photo with Dean and the rest of the crew and then fled with the bogus excuse that his cat wasn’t feeling well.

“I like the posters,” Dean says quietly as they step into the studio, like he’s afraid if he speaks too loudly the moment will be ruined and Castiel will kick him out. “Classics, right?”

Castiel glances at the posters only briefly before facing Dean once more. They’re old, from his childhood bedroom in fact, but they hold a special place in his heart as his first favorites. He could draw them from memory if he had the skill.

“I’m surprised you remember.”

Dean snorts and smiles, still looking around the room instead of at Castiel. “Yeah well, I looked them up at the library and ended up renting the videos once I had a couple bucks to spare. I remember I really liked them even though my dad caught me watching one and he gave me a good ass ki- Well, it was totally worth it even though they were  _ nothing  _ like Pink Floyd.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“I still don’t know what that is.”

“ _ Dude _ .” Dean points to the logo on his t-shirt. “Classic rock band? Got really popular in the 70’s? No?”

Castiel shakes his head, fighting back a smile. “Sorry, no.”

Dean shakes his head and looks like he wants to say something else, but he holds back and they fall into an awkward silence. Castiel sucks in a breath, but Dean beats him to the punch.

“You sure you aren’t busy? We don’t- I mean, it’s been decades and I just kind of showed up.”

“You could have called,” Castiel points out. Dean lifts an eyebrow and looks him in the eye.

“You don’t answer anymore.”

Castiel winces and looks away. He deserved that.

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sor-,”

“I was embarrassed,” Castiel interrupts, talking down to his hands clasped in front of him. “I thought we were on even footing this whole time and we could… But you were there for the worst day of my life and I didn’t even remember-,” Castiel’s voice catches and he grinds to a halt lest the next thing to come out of his mouth be a sob.

“Not gonna lie, I’m kinda pissed that you didn’t know who I was back then. I mean, as far as you knew you were hitching a ride halfway across the country with a stranger.”

Castiel’s mouth turns down into a grimace. “I wasn’t in the best headspace at the time. I do remember thinking you were very kind.”

Dean shakes his head. “Hey man, been there done that. I’d be lying if I said i was any better when my old man kicked the bucket and I didn’t even  _ like  _ him.”

Castiel snorts a laugh and rubs his eyes, surprised to find them dry. The silence between them isn’t so heavy this time and Castiel finds he can look Dean in the face, only to find him watching him sadly.

“I didn’t get you there in time, did I?” he asks far more gently than he should be capable. “That’s why you didn’t call.”

Castiel swallows and tightens his jaw. “I wouldn’t have called anyway,” he admits. “I wanted to forget.” His voice breaks again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t faster.”

Castiel shakes his head roughly. “It wasn’t your fault.” He doesn’t want him to imagine even for a second that Castiel blames him.

“Well...”

“It  _ wasn’t _ ,” Castiel insists. “I- They called while I was still at the school, after the talent show and I ignored it. I-,” Castiel laughs, grim and harsh. “I didn’t even check the voicemail until an hour later. If I had just-,”

“I wouldn’t have been there,” Dean interrupts.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t have been there to offer you a ride if you would have gone to the airport right after they called. I wouldn’t have been there to offer you a ride. You would have had to wait for that plane or, hell, you would have driven yourself and wound up in your own hospital bed, if not dead.”

Castiel shakes his head, but doesn’t have a counter argument.

Dean scoffs and turns away, rolling his shoulders. “Enough heavy shit. Let’s just, forget about it and start over, alright? I’m here to dance. How do I get started?”

Castiel’s lips curl into a smile and he sets Dean to work with enthusiasm.

“Warm up and stretch. Then I’ll teach you the basic positions. Let’s start with some lunges.”

Dean groans. “I hate cardio.”

“Too bad, Winchester. Get moving.”

Grumbling, Dean dips down into his first lung and glares at Castiel. “You’re not doing them with me?”

“I’m already warm. Next time, get here sooner and I won’t start without you.”

Dean lets his gaze linger for a long moment before finally he smiles.

“Early it is.”

It doesn’t take long to get Dean warm, but they spend almost an entire hour stretching, only very briefly going through the positions.

“The human body was never meant to bend like that,” Dean moans from his back flat on the floor. Castiel grins. While Dean is covered with sweat, Castiel feels like he’s hardly gotten started.

“I still can’t believe you’re bowlegged.”

“I still can’t believe you hadn’t noticed,” Dean snaps. He moves like he’s going to sit up only to groan and lay back down. “It’s like, the second thing people notice.”

Castiel thinks he’ll be lucky to notice anything else ever again, but he genuinely hadn’t until he saw Dean’s abysmal first position.

“How many of these do I have to go through before I get to see you dance again?” Dean asks, lolling his head against the floor to better see Castiel standing above him.

Castiel’s heart beats extra hard against his ribcage and he knows he probably shouldn’t, but his mouth is already moving.

“As many as it takes before you can dance with me.”

Dean stares up at him, mouth parted in a small ‘o’ of surprise while Castiel waits for the floor to swallow him. Then Dean scrubs his hands over his face and groans.

“You’re trying to kill me. I knew it.”

With a laugh, Castiel hold out a hand to help Dean to his feet. Dean’s hand fits into his, damp and warm as he pulls him up. Dean stumbles but stays standing.

“That would directly contradict my objective.”

“Yeah? And what objective would that be?”

Castiel’s tongue feels too big for his mouth and his palms are suddenly sweaty. He can’t look Dean in the eye, though Dean doesn’t seem to be having that problem. Intense, would be the word Castiel would use to describe the way Dean is looking at him.

“D’you…” Dean licks his lips and takes a fortifying breath. “D’you wanna get a coffee sometime? With me, I mean. Not as a business thing.”

Castiel swings his gaze around to meet Dean’s. They’re standing much too close, but he finds he doesn’t care.

“Yes.”

“I mean as a date.”

“ _ Yes _ Dean, I want to go on a date with you.”

“Oh.” Dean blinks rapidly, like it was the last answer he was expecting. “Well, okay then. It’s a date.” Then he bites his bottom lip and rubs the back of his neck while looking down at the floor. “If we’re going full disclosure here, you should know I’ve had a massive crush on you for years now. Please, don’t think that’s weird.”

“Oh.” Castiel’s brain is struggling to keep up with this development, but he’s determined not to fuck it up like he did the last couple surprises Dean threw at him. “Years?”

Dean huffs a short embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, uh, since I saw you dance at the talent show? And then Mary wanted to go say hi with Sam, but I was too chicken shit so I hid in the bathroom for ten minutes.”

Castiel bursts out laughing, earning himself an offended glare from Dean. He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him, but it’s rather ruined by his continued giggling.

“Wow. Thanks man,” Dean complains, but his lips are curling in a reluctant smile.

“I apologize,” Castiel says with a wide smile. “I never knew that.”

“Really?” Dean asks. “Kinda figured Sammy would’ve spilled the beans by now.”

Castiel shrugs. “We haven’t been talking as much. Life got busy for both of us. Although he told me he’s happy he decided to open his practice here in Kansas rather than California. He missed you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean deflects, but he looks pleased all the same.

“Did you tell him about… us? The studio I mean.”

“No, I thought you would.”

They stare at each other for several seconds and before he knows it, they’re both smiling.

“We’re already terrible at this,” he says, chagrined.

“Nah,” Dean immediately disagrees. “We ain’t so bad. All we need is a little practice. Walk me to my car? I’m not sure I can make it.”

Castiel pretends to think it over. “Only on one condition. I get to give you a kiss goodnight before you go.”

The flicker of surprise that passes over Dean’s features is there and gone between one blink and the next as a slow, cocky smile takes its place.

“I’ll do you one better,” he says. “You can kiss me as many times as you like, whenever you like.”

“Right now?” Castiel asks. His veins are thrumming under his skin and his head feels light. He takes a slow breath to keep himself from grabbing Dean right then as the man licks his lips while staring at Castiel’s.

“Yeah. Anytime you want,” Dean says, voice low.

Castiel steps forward until their chest are nearly brushing and puts his hands on Dean’s hips, but stops himself from capturing Dean’s lips with his own like he so wants to.

“What about Mary?”

“Mary?” Dean asks faintly, staring at Castiel’s lips.

“Will she be okay with this?”

“Will-,” Dean scoffs and brings his eyes up to meet Castiel’s stare. He never realized how green they are. Up close like this he can see flecks of brown and gold. They’re mesmerizing, as are the smatterings of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He could spend days tracing them. “Cas, she’s the one who told me to get off my mopey ass and do something about you. She’s the reason I’m here. She’s on board, trust me. Now just fucking kiss me already. You’re driving me-,”

Castiel leans in and steals the words from his mouth. Dean’s lips are warm and plush and the way Dean sucks a startled breath in through his nose and then melts into the kiss ignites a fire deep in his belly. He lets his hands wander to the soft skin under Dean’s shirt and around to his back and pulls him closer, until their bodies are flush.

Dean pulls back to suck in some much needed air, but doesn’t pull away.

“That was not a goodnight kiss,” he says, voice rough.

“I got carried away,” Castiel explains, but refuses to apologise. Instead he leans back in and presses another kiss, a sweeter kiss, to Dean’s lips. “You said I could kiss you whenever I want. You didn’t specify what kind and I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.”

“A long time, huh?” Dean taunts, tugging lightly at the waistband of Castiel’s sweatpants at his hip. “Try seven years, buddy.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and presses another light kiss to Dean’s lips, simply because he can and because they’re there and because he has found over the course of the last five minutes that he enjoys doing so very very much.

“Are you going to hold that over my head forever?”

Dean goes still under his hands and Castiel runs the uncomplicated sentence over again in his head to figure out what he said wrong.  _ Forever _ , a big word for something so new, but heavens above, Castiel wants it. He wants it as bad as he’s ever wanted anything. As bad as he wanted this studio.

Dean relaxes as their eyes connect and he carefully and precisely presses his own kiss to Castiel’s lips.

“Only if I’m extremely lucky.”

.

END

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End file.
